


Give And Take

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Perfect Match Omegaverse [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDSM, Bondage, F/F, M/M, Minor Character Death, Omegaverse, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach Falls Omegaverse AU - Mycroft is feeling lonely and decides it is far past time to hit on his younger brother's pack Alpha. The end result is a rollercoaster of unfamiliar emotions leading to Mycroft going missing quite suddenly- and what on earth is wrong with Molly? PERFECT MATCH PT 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Gregory Lestrade saw Mycroft Holmes standing at the head of the gravesite, staring absently into the grave as the coffin was slowly lowered down. The tombstone he stood behind was as pale as the skin of the detective who was being laid to rest beneath it. Surely the man had known this was inevitable, what with Sherlock’s deviated gender/dynamic, but a suicide didn’t become less shocking by being expected.

Slowly they all filed by and dropped a rose onto the detectives grave before shaking Mycroft’s hand, murmuring condolences, and heading back to the long line of cars that would take a majority of these people back to their normal lives. When Lestrade clasped Mycroft’s hand the man tightened his grip and pulled Lestrade forward, his breath stirring Lestrade’s hair – and his loins.

“Stay behind, I’d like a word with you,” he practically sighed.

It couldn’t possibly be the sexual innuendo that Lestrade’s cock wanted it to be, not considering their surroundings and who was lying nearby. Rather, it was likely that Mycroft had decided some form of vengeance was due. Many families of victims of suicide were convinced that someone was to blame, must be found, and punished. He had spoken to many over the years, and the ensuing conversations had been traumatic for everyone involved.

Lestrade reclaimed his upright position and favored Mycroft with a soft, sad smile.

“Of course,” he barely stopped himself from adding ‘Mycroft’ at the end, or perhaps even ‘My’. He did not have the privilege of that kind of familiarity with the influential Omega.

Lestrade was directed into a large, nondescript, black sedan by Mycroft’s assistant, successfully disguising his jealousy over her undoubtedly intimate position in her employer’s life with a flirtatious wink. He had no right to want Mycroft for his own; he was a married man, even if she was a cheating whore and a sterile Beta. Mycroft was also an unattainable goal even should Lestrade become single. He was easily as powerful as the prime minister, perhaps more so. In fact, Lestrade thought perhaps Mycroft was more powerful than even he wanted to know.

That thought got him hard on a regular basis. It wasn’t that he wanted to be Dominated, though Donovan never ceased to point out that he must if he’d married a Beta Switch. No, he was simply impressed with the man. The idea of someone with that kind of brilliance and influence, who was also an Omega Submissive as most intelligent people in the world were… the man who got to top that figurehead was truly worth his salt, and Lestrade wanted to top Mycroft _desperately._

_Get over it, Greg, you’re a married man._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Mycroft slid into the seat beside Gregory with a soft sigh. The driver shut the door and soon they were gliding out of the cemetery with barely a jog of the perfect suspension. He was barely keeping a grip on his control, and for once he couldn’t blame an impending heat cycle. Sherlock caused no end of worry and catastrophe for him with his antics, but this time they were working together – of a sorts – and he was even more terrified. He needed a distraction, and he had every intention of getting it.

Once they arrive at Mycroft’s townhouse he dismissed Anthea with a wave of his hand and showed Gregory into the Drawing Room himself. The fire was already roaring so he gestured to one of the wingback chairs and headed for the bar.

“Scotch, neat?”

“Brandy, if you have it. I’m not of a mind for scotch today.”

“Certainly.”

“I understand you are staying at a bedsit near the Yard?” _-as opposed to with your wife._ Mycroft added mentally. Then he kneeled in front of Gregory and presented him with the drink he’d poured with lowered eyes.

“Ah… yes.” Gregory replied. He always seemed intimidated when Mycroft knew personal information about him.

“Relax, Gregory,” Mycroft advised as he plucked the laces off of first one dress shoe and then the other, “I’m only making sure you are… comfortable.”

Let him move away, let him flounder or stutter, let him demand the car be pulled round to return him, and Mycroft would abandon this course of action forever and pretend it had not occurred. None of that happened. Instead he was treated to the sound of Gregory’s breath being drawn in through his nose and the sight of the man carefully uncrossing his legs and adjusting his erection. Though it was considered the epitome of crass behavior to acknowledge an Alpha’s erection if you weren’t currently on the receiving end of it, Mycroft decided his being the cause was close enough for sophistication.

“I see that you are, then, very good. I look forward to relief from the distress I’ve been put through this last week.”

“Stress release, eh?” Gregory asked, his crude accent more of a stimulant to Mycroft then a deterrent. The man was positively civilian, but in such a filthy way.

“Mmmm, I assure you it can be quite mutual.”

“I’m sure it will be – would be – could… Mycroft… may I call you Mycroft? I’m sorry, but I... aaaaahhhhhh.”

Mycroft had tugged off Gregory’s shoes and taken one of his feet in hand, massaging it firmly through the dress sock. He worked that foot for a moment, leaning it into his lap as he moved up the calf so that it pressed against his own erection, before switching to the other. Gregory’s words may have been uncertain, but his body betrayed him as his Alpha scent glands put out a decidedly unbonded scent. Just that quickly Cheryl Lestrades bonding scent vaporized from Gregory’s body and vanished into the expensive air conditioning system.

Mycroft’s trousers were shamefully tight, and not just by design, as the current fashion of Omega’s demanded. He was hard and aching, his usually neglected loins voicing their complaint as the man above him went from ‘bonded-to-a-barely-competition-Beta’ to ‘available-Alpha-on-the-prowl’. While Gregory wouldn’t notice his own scent change immediately, it was quickly becoming a problem for Mycroft as his pants became uncomfortably wet. He hadn’t put on his lube-pad that morning, having dismissed the idea of becoming aroused at even a mock-funeral for his baby brother, and if he smelled a little aroused afterwards during a tête-à-tête with Gregory, well that was just fine, but this sudden level of moisture was really unacceptable. However, it could be used to his advantage.

Mycroft stood and walked back to the bar, collecting some sanitizing lotion and rubbing it into his hands. The motions of his hips helped to spread the natural lubricants about a bit, making him more comfortable… and wafted the scent through the air. His position by the wet bar also allowed Gregory to get a good look at the wet spot seeping through his clothes.

 “Oh, fucking hell,” Gregory moaned, spreading his legs wider, which Mycroft happily took as permission.

Moving back towards Gregory, he now dropped down directly between his thighs. Leaning forward with hands clasped behind his back, Mycroft nuzzled the tip of the bulge in front of him, enjoying the sounds of Gregory’s gasps. A hand curled firmly behind his head and he found himself pressed into the man’s groin. He took a deep breath of Alpha musk and moaned appreciatively. Gregory bucked and began panting almost desperately.

“My… I… oh, fuck you’re gorgeous like this.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was lost in the fantasy come reality that was quickly causing him to forget the wife he’d been trying to fix his marriage with for six years now. Hell, the woman was unfaithful to him on a regular basis according to Sherlock, what did it matter if Lestrade took a little dip in a forbidden pool?

Sherlock.

Fuck.

He was humping the face of his dead friend’s distraught brother. Lestrade shoved the auburn head from his lap, toppling the man onto the floor, but was nearly undone by the wanton gasp and the look of hunger on the man’s face as he was thrown down. Obviously he was expecting to be ravished, but Lestrade turned and fled the room. He headed towards the exit, but the damned place was huge and the large doors he flung open turned out to be the entrance to a library instead of the doors to the street.

“If you are looking for the dungeon,” Mycroft’s posh accent shivered its way up his spine, “we keep it in the traditional place; below the cellar. Shall I show you the way, Sir?”

“Oh, fuck, Mycroft, you have no idea how much I want to… I can’t.”

“If your marriage is your concern, it is already over, Gregory. Check for Cheryl’s scent if you don’t believe me.”

Lestrade stepped a few paces away from Mycroft, which was no easy task when the scent of aroused Omega was literally _everywhere_ and pressed his collar to his nose to take in a lungful of his bondmate’s scent, which should have been seeping from his perspiring neck; it would ground him, surely. Except it wasn’t there.

“How… we’ve only been apart a day. She met me to renew the scent… we’re still fighting but we’ve never _not_ renewed it and…”

“Your body _purged it_ , Gregory. You took one look at what I was offering earlier and your sweat glands vaporized her offensive Beta odor. It was immediately obvious to me as a potential mate, but apparently you need convincing. Would you like me to tell you the exact time down to the second that you became divorced? Or would you like me to remind you why your Alpha body requires an Omega to be truly complete?”

Lestrade closed his eyes and focused himself, much in the way he did right before he ordered a building infiltrated or a bomb squad deployed. There was a needy Omega in front of him and every instinct in his body was screaming at him to satisfy Mycroft immediately. His marriage was over, there was no denying that, but Mycroft had already expressed that his only interest was stress release. If he left now he might still do so with a piece of his fool heart intact.

“Show me to the dungeon.”

Mycroft bowed, ever so elegantly, and turned precisely on his heals before heading in the opposite direction.

“This way, please, Sir.” He purred the words and it was immediately clear; this wasn’t something Lestrade was going to take, it was something he was being _given._

Oh, what a priceless gift the submission of a powerful entity would be.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/72386.html)

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft’s dungeon was truly something to be admired. It spanned the entire floorplan of the house and was neatly tucked beneath the cellar, making it a sub-basement and entirely soundproof. You could make a Submissive scream for hours and no one would ever hear. Lestrade was given a quick tour, probably more so he could decide what to use than for proprieties’ sake.

There were four rooms, one in each corner, and a main floor shaped like a plus sign due to the rooms. The top of the plus was devoted to the stairway, but the remainder was devoted to kinks of all kinds. The room to the immediate right as they came down the stairs was a miniature people-sized stable with three stalls and various pony-play equipment. The room to the immediate left was a kitchen with strategically placed eyehooks and well placed innocent looking toys (such as a trivet shaped like a paddle with the words “kiss the cook” emblazoned across it). The room to the far right was a toy room featuring entire walls of toys, some of which Lestrade had never even seen before let alone used. The far left room was a bedroom straight out of a vampire film set; filled with dark red and black velvet drapes around a gigantic four-poster bed, dark textured wall paper, a cherry wood vanity with plush stool, and a short, long dresser big enough for two people to stretch across (the clips in the corners implied that was it’s purpose entirely).

The bottom of the plus contained a rack and a sex chair with a hole in the seat (Lestrade decidedly did _not_ want to know why). The right wing of the plus, as you came down the stairs, was dominated by a large St Andrew’s cross placed at an angle in the center to allow access from all sides and viewing space if one sat in the center of the large plus. The opposite wing contained a wetbar and several leather covered stools. In the very center of the plus was a sex swing with many adjustable straps.

“Where shall we go first?” Mycroft asked, smirking at Lestrade’s gaping face.

“My, this is fantastic!”

“Yes, but I do hope it isn’t detracting from the main event.”

Lestrade blinked. Of course, Mycroft wanted all the attention on him, that was only as it should be.

“Mycroft Holmes, _nothing_ could detract from you.”

Lestrade kissed the back of the man’s hand and led him towards the St. Andrew’s cross. It was probably the least inventive toy in the room, but at least Lestrade was familiar with it; he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. As he lashed Mycroft in he asked the usual questions and left for the toy room to fetch the necessary items… and to give Mycroft time to build up anticipation and drip sweet smelling fluids onto the fancy carpeting. Lestrade didn’t envy him the cleaning bill when he was done.

Lestrade returned with a basketful of toys, a few condoms, lubricant, and some edible nipple cream. While he’d been undressing Mycroft he’d noticed the Omega had decidedly fantastic nipples for a male, they were big and puckered from the chill of the room with pink areolas. Mycoft had the typical mess of freckles that most redheads had, but they seemed almost strategically placed on his shoulders and upper arms, as though to frame his chest in red lace. Lestrade was looking forward to making them blur into a red haze under his ministrations.

Lestrade started with the nipple cream, enjoying the sounds of Mycrofts moans as he smeared them liberally and then sucked the strawberry substance off with his own small sounds of delight. Once they were positively sore from his ministrations Lestrade reached into the basket and attached some nipple clamps. Perfect. He already looked debauched, and those eyes were dancing with obvious pleasure. Lestrade reached into the basket again, drawing out a flogger, and watched Mycroft’s eyes. Once he saw the approval there he brought it down across the man’s freckled shoulders and grinned at the first few cries.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft was in heaven. Gregory may have started out conventionally but he was far from remaining that way. First of all, most people avoided flogging someone’s chest, especially when nipple clamps were involved, but Gregory had no issue with striking him wherever he pleased, not caring if the nipple clamp chain tangled with the flogger and tugged on him beautifully. In fact, after the first two times it happened Mycroft thought he was doing it on purpose and using the untangling process to frustrate him intentionally. Eventually he switched to a longer flogger and attacked Mycroft’s legs before unhooking him and turning him around.

It became quite serious after that, as Gregory warmed that side up with a flogger and then switched to an honest-to-god whip without warning. Mycroft screamed his approval, writhing on the cross and demanding more. Gregory took it out of him in spades, until Mycroft was a quivering limp mess, dripping with sweat, desire, and trails of blood. Gregory paused to take a swig from his water bottle and offered Mycroft some as well, gently wiping sweat from his forehead and asking if he needed a break. Mycroft’s trembling body screamed yes, but his mind was on the brink of that blissful oblivion that was subspace. He wanted it desperately, needed to feel that release from all worldly things. He murmured his consent to continue.

Gregory washed his hands at the wet bar and came back with a small flannel. He then took up a spray bottle and for a moment Mycroft wished he _had_ taken the break. The 10% rubbing alcohol spray that doused his enflamed skin burned hotter than the whip had and Mycroft screamed and writhed in agony. It was short lived and he soon felt a cool rasp of cloth as Gregory gently cleaned his shoulders and back.

“I certainly hope you are not under the impression that we are _through_ here,” Mycroft snarled.

“Not at all.”

“Then _why_ are you administering aftercare? I specified _no_ break.”

“Last I checked this stuff,” Gregory sprayed more to make a point, “hurts like a bitch.”

Mycroft hissed in pain and went limp in his bonds. Gregory left and returned, this time with something he kept out of Mycroft’s sight.

“You sure about no limits on the stuff in that room?” Gregory asked, with more than a little strain in his voice.

“I’d have removed anything I found… AH!”

A cane. Gregory had just struck the back of both of his thighs with a bamboo cane. He wasn’t going to be able to sit for a week when this was done! Oh, he’d be remembering this the entire time, the pain and pleasure together whenever he moved his legs.

“Yes! More! Oh! Ah!” Mycroft knew he sounded like any typical Omega Sub, but it was hard to be elegant when you were achingly hard from being caned by a very desirable Alpha. 

“Fuck, My, you’re so hot. I bet you could come from this alone, couldn’t you? Maybe I should wrap a cock ring around that pretty little Omega prick of yours.”

“Yes, please, Sir!” Mycroft groaned, and was rewarded with a strap being wrapped around his prick… and a vibrator slipped beneath it to hum against his bollocks. “Fuck!”

Mycroft was bouncing like a spider in a web, and had no trust in the cock ring, which was far too loose since it had been applied after he’d achieved an erection, holding back his imminent release. The cane came down on his buttocks this time and Mycroft screamed as his testicles drew up in anticipation of orgasm. Gregory’s body pressed itself against his stinging back and he reached around to tug gently at Mycroft’s bits, holding off his orgasm that way even as the vibrator pulled him inexorably back.

“I’ve got your blood on my chest, My. You want to lick it off?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Mmmm, maybe I’ll let you later.” Gregory was unclasping him and tugging him towards the bedroom chamber. Mycroft wasn’t at all certain he could walk and dropped to his hands and knees to crawl, barely resisting the urge to hump the air as the vibrator pushed against him more soundly.

“Fuck, yeah, stay right there. Don’t move.”

Gregory bolted for the pony-play room and Mycroft shivered in anticipation. Sure enough a full bit and tack were strapped to his head, restricting his vision and giving him a sense of still being bound. Mycroft chewed the leather-over-wood bit appreciatively, enjoying how right it felt to chomp down on something while anticipating a thick cock up his arse. A snap of a riding crop on his hip sent him on his way towards the bedroom, and Mycroft could hear Gregory stroking his cock from behind him.

“Your arse is perfect, My. Red and bleeding just for me. I’m gonna fuck you _so hard_.”

“Mmmmmm,” Mycroft hummed appreciatively.

The bed was where they headed, and Gregory had him on his hands and knees while he fingered the aristocrat eagerly. Unlike during heat, Mycroft would require at least a bit of stretching, though he was tenting nicely so Gregory started with three fingers and worked his way up to his hand, minus the thumb. Mycroft was moaning eagerly and fucking himself back on it before Gregory decided it was time to continue. He waited patiently while the condom was rolled on; hearing the hiss most Alpha’s made as the thing wrapped snuggly around their knot. It would allow just enough pressure for Gregory to climax without knotting him, since they had agreed that was far too intimate for what they were doing tonight.

 _Perhaps some day._ Mycroft thought.

Gregory leaned forward and snatched up the reins attached to Mycroft’s bit and slid himself home. They both moaned appreciatively and then stilled, giving each other a moment to enjoy the fullness and tightness respectively. Soon Gregory shifted and Mycroft stilled as the riding crop was raised above Gregory’s head. Mycroft stared at their shadow on the headboard; it was positively scandalous that he could see Gregory posing there with crop above his head. Then he snapped the crop across his hip and Mycroft surged forward and then threw himself back as the reins were gently tugged, crying out appreciatively.

“Fuck, yeah. No wonder this stuff’s so popular. I’m going to breed you like a mare. You want that?”

Mycroft moaned agreement and they were soon working a fast pace of snap, pull, snap, pull, snap, pull; their bodies slapping together, greedy for pleasure and anticipating more as their orgasms pulled close. Mycroft felt Gregory drop the reins and reach around him, releasing him from his cock ring and then stroking him quickly. Mycroft screamed out his pleasure and another snap of the crop threw him into subspace where his cries of pleasure were absorbed by the bit in his mouth. He felt Gregory still and the hand stimulating him left to grip the man’s knot as he flooded the condom. Gregory’s cries of pleasure, interspersed with swear words, were more titillating than Mycroft had expected and he came hard again. He was still floating in subspace, blissed out and moaning his appreciation for Gregory’s talent, though the bit muffled it into nonsense, when he felt the man stroking him again. He was quite satisfied, but what the hell? Mycroft let himself tumble into another orgasm before collapsing onto the bed, completely unable to do more than lie still and drift.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade felt an intense surge of pride, as Mycroft lay sideways on the bed, obviously overcome with pleasure and lost in subspace. He set about removing the bit and bridle, checking his spaced out lover’s face for injury and finding only a bit of chaffing around his mouth. He headed back out to fetch the aftercare kit Mycroft had left him, including the spray and flannel, and cleaned Mycroft up a bit more. The man happily rolled any which way Lestrade moved him, but was soon shivering a bit.

Lestrade wrapped him tightly in blankets and placed the posh man’s head in his lap, petting his thin red hair and murmuring gentle words of approval.

“You were so beautiful, My. I’m honored that you submitted to me like that. I am proud of you for your strength. I think the world of you, you know that? You’re utterly amazing.”

The shivering stopped and Lestrade gently tipped some water into Mycroft’s mouth when he licked at his lips a bit. He found some lip balm in the aftercare kit and rubbed it over his chapped lips. Mycroft sighed happily and started drifting off into real sleep, as opposed to the mind wandering of subspace. This was the part Lestrade hated about one-offs, because now he had to pull Mycroft out of his post-orgasmic post-subspace bliss and talk to him. He needed to make sure it was okay to leave Mycroft, or make arrangements for him if it wasn’t. Part of him hoped that Mycroft not only needed more aftercare, but that he specifically would want Lestrade to stay. That was a tad cruel; subdrop was no joke and needing more aftercare meant he hadn’t handled it well so far or that Mycroft regretted what they’d done.

“My? Mycroft, wake up beautiful.”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you… is it… Should I stay or go?”

“Hmmm? Oh… as you prefer, Gregory. I’ll be remaining right here, thank you, I can’t be _arsed_ to move.”

Lestrade was too confused to laugh at the sound of Mycroft Holmes swearing. He tried to figure out if he’d been dismissed or invited to stay. It didn’t sound like either. He wanted to stay, but Mycroft’s words from earlier were ringing in his mind. This was only to help Mycroft relax after losing his brother. Lestrade didn’t think he should burden the man with an awkward morning after.

“Do you need more aftercare?”

“Mmmmm, water.”

Mycroft downed most of the bottle with Lestrade holding his head up. Lestrade then settled him down on the bed, slipping out from under him, made sure the man was well tucked in and that his aftercare kit was within reach, and left to locate his clothes. Once dressed, he glanced in on the Omega again, but he was happily snoring away; clearly Lestrade had done his Alpha duties well by the charming man. He decided a note was in order and found a pad of paper and a pen at the wet bar. He wrote it out and left it sitting on top of the aftercare kit where Mycroft was sure to see it immediately.

            Dear Mycroft:

Thank you for a more than enjoyable evening. I hope you feel you can come to me again if you ever are in need of more such attention. You are truly an impressive person.

            Sincerely,

            Greg Lestrade

Lestrade was proud of his note, figuring he sounded rather well educated, polite, and inviting without being needy. He climbed the stairs and wandered a bit until a servant noticed him and showed him out.

XXXXXXXXX

Mycroft woke the next morning with a pounding headache, but it was only the first of many pains he noticed. His back was raw, his bottom severely bruised, and his arsehole…

“Mmmmm, a most successful night, clearly,” Mycroft sighed, and then sat up to look for his bed partner.

He was alone. Quite alone, and still in the dungeon instead of his own, far warmer, chambers. That meant climbing the stairs with a good bit of morning-after stiffness just to get to the loo. A glance at the note on top of his aftercare kit brought everything rushing back. He silently cursed himself, frowning outwardly, as he recalled implying to Gregory that he wanted nothing more than stress release. Evidently the man had taken him at his word. At least he’d been kind enough to give him an in for another scene together. Perhaps in time it would become more.

 

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Give And Take Ch 3

The first thing Mycroft did to secure his place with Gregory was to interfere on his behalf at the Yard. One hour after walking into the Commissioner’s office and a police constable was marching downstairs to tell Gregory to put the pictures back on his desk, he wouldn’t be losing his office due to the Sherlock Holmes debacle. He stayed for a few more minutes to joke and finish his tea before heading downstairs to reap what he’d sown.

Gregory was on the phone when he got downstairs, apparently with his Superintendent, but Mycroft was certain he’d get no trouble from that quarter. If he did, Mycroft would simply handle it. Gregory glanced up and Mycroft gave him a smile, which earned him a motion to come in and take a seat.

“Yeah, I don’t know, Sir. No, Sir,” Gregory was replying softly, “Although I’ve got a few leads.”

Mycroft caught the narrowed eyes Gregory threw his way and smirked, happy to take credit for Gregory’s good fortune. Gregory motioned for him to shut the door, which he happily did, taking a moment to close the blinds as well. He was anticipating a thank-you suck off, but was rather surprised when Gregory got off the phone and leveled him with a glare. His knees buckled, but he kept himself on his feet, unwilling to submit - even to someone he enjoyed submitting to - without knowing the reason why.

“Did you pull strings to get me my rank and office back?” Gregory asked, his voice full of accusation.

“I did, but I hardly see how your tone is appropriate,” Mycroft replied, feeling his knees twitch again.

“You went over my head and patched things up with my boss after a roll in the hay with me, and you don’t see how my tone is appropriate?” Gregory didn’t yell, he got quiet, and that was what finally brought Mycroft tumbling to his knees.

“I was just trying to make things right after my little brother…”

“Don’t mention him. Not right now.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Mycroft winced, hating his instinctive need to submit to an Alpha he saw as his own; Sherlock’s pack Alpha, and quickly becoming his own after last night. There was a reason Omega’s pulled the strings while Beta’s like Anthea did all the legwork and face-to-face negotiations.

“Bloody hell, you can’t do this My. It’s not that I’m not grateful- or that I didn’t need to be pulled up by my bootstraps, because I’m not going to posture here and say I didn’t need that- but damn it, I’m not going to sleep my way to the top. Not with you and not with anyone else. I realize you Omegas run the world, and that’s fine with me. Being a big dick is my lot in life, and frankly I’m good at it, but I’m not _your_ big dick and I’m not going to just follow after you like a blind fool. So if that’s what last night was about, you can just forget about it. I’m not in your pocket. I’m not in anyone’s pocket. Not anymore. I’m going to make my own damn way or fall on my arse, but fuck it all, it will be _me that got me there_.”

“I completely understand, but…”

“ **But nothing.”**

Gregory’s Dom Voice was almost a whisper, but it nearly brought Mycroft all the way to _saikeirei_. In that moment he remembered why he usually exclusively slept with Betas. It was too much. The second he let himself enjoy an Alpha’s company this was what would happen. He would become _vulnerable._ It was why so many Omegas in high positions like his married the stupidest, most unimpressive Alpha’s they could find. No interference. No questioning their motives or attempting to get him or herself benefits by having powerful Omegas for spouses.

“Understood.”

“Good, you can get up off the floor now,” Gregory extended a hand, but Mycroft pushed himself to his feet with his umbrella and headed for the door, “Oh, now don’t be like that, My.”

“Like what, Gregory? Aren’t I _allowed_ up off the floor now? Should I also have your _permission_ to leave?”

“That’s not… I didn’t… Look I didn’t mean to Dom you.”

“Then you might have watched your Voice.” Mycroft threw open the door and stormed out, face flushed with humiliation, but his expression forced it to look like rage. He couldn’t let Gregory know just how much he’d hurt him.

“My! Come on, Mycroft!” Gregory had followed after him, but he’d reached the lifts just before the doors closed. Perfect for a parting shot.

“That’s Mr. Holmes, thank you.” The lift dinged, the doors slid shut, and the last thing he saw was the wounded look on Gregory’s face.

XXXXXXXXXXX

It was another two years before anything occurred that required Mycroft to contact Scotland Yard directly. It was, of course, a minor escapade involving a man of theirs who had gone rogue. He no longer had useful information, at least nothing verifiable, but he had gone and killed quite a few people and was planning to do far worse. Mycroft was sitting to the side looking intelligent and regal, as was an Omega’s place, while Anthea gave a presentation to the group of Inspectors and Sergeants. Gregory was in the room, but Mycroft was very carefully _not_ looking in his direction.

“So you see, we suspect that the bombs will be placed at hospitals, schools, and possibly libraries or museums. He’s not going for maximum monetary damage, or even maximum fatalities, he’ll want to cripple the entire city emotionally. This is terrorism. Plain and simple.”

Gregory’s hand went up but Anthea pointedly ignored him. Mycroft saw all of this out of the corner of his eye and smirked happily. Then Gregory leaned over and asked Dimmock a question. Dimmock’s hand shot up. Anthea was too slow to catch the exchange and called on Dimmock before Mycroft could signal her not to.

“D.I. Lestrade was just wondering if he’ll go for the police,” Dimmock asked.

“Perhaps if Detective Inspector Lestrade didn’t want to get himself in dangerous situations,” Anthea stated with sickeningly sweet consolation in her voice, “He ought not to have gotten a job that required he be shot at on occasion.”

The room was completely silent, and Mycroft surveyed the faces and found them to be thoroughly disgusted with Anthea’s answer. So, Gregory had made good on his oath and fixed his reputation himself. Good on him.

“What I meant,” Gregory stated, standing and placing both hands on his hips beneath his open jacket, “Is if he’s looking to cripple the city won’t bombing Scotland Yard be top priority?”

“It might be, but he’d have to be quite audacious to go so far as to find a way to rig a bomb on Scotland Yard,” Mycroft stated scornfully before he could remind himself that this man could floor him far too easily.

“Not so hard, actually. I’ve been complaining for nearly a decade that this place is too accessible from the Underground.”

“Explain,” Mycroft asked with narrowed eyes.

“There used to be a connector from the building next door directly to the tube on…”

Gregory never got to finish his explanation. They were on the third floor, but that didn’t stop the windows from being blown out around them as what sounded like three separate bombs went off. The entire building listed to one side, and then the floor gave out beneath them. Screams, dust, rubble, metal folding chairs, and flailing limbs were all that encompassed Mycroft’s senses until blackness swallowed him whole.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was searching the rubble with something close to desperation. It wasn’t just the typical Alpha instinct to find and protect all Omegas; this was personal. He’d cursed the day he’d chased the prickly elder Holmes away, and now he was picturing the gorgeous Omega dead and cold just like Sherlock.

“Over here!” Donovan called out, and Lestrade hurried over. Mycroft was unconscious, but alive. His face a mess of blood from a rather deep gash in his forehead. They carefully unburied him, checking for injuries as they did, and he groaned in pain.

“Hang on, My. I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine. Sally, here, rip this up.” Lestrade held out his jacket, but Sally refused it.

“You might need it to keep him warm, we’ll use my slip,”

Ever the Alpha, Sally shamelessly tugged her skirt up and then yanked her slip down. It was far cleaner than his jacket anyway, having been covered with her skirt. Sally fixed her skirt, ignoring the few men who ogled her red thong knickers, and started shredding the skirt.

“Anthea?” Mycroft asked weakly.

“Injured, but alive. Broken leg. She’s being kept comfortable,” Lestrade informed as he inspected the wound on Mycroft’s face.

“This is most inconvenient. We need to get me out of here immediately.”

“One of the boys has a radio app on his cell and it survived the blast,” Lestrade explained gently, “Your boy didn’t just settle for bombing us. He bombed hospital & fire, too. No one’s coming, My. Not for a long time. We’ll be all right, though. Group of the boys, the ones who survived, are on the other side of the building digging out. It leaned to one side, so they don’t have far to go. We’re on the worse part of it. Lucky to be alive, really.”

“Digging out is the last of my problems. I’m less than a day from estrus. Anthea was supposed to handle it, but with her out of the equation…” Mycroft informed him with no small amount of concern in his voice.

“No… oh, fuck!”

“Indeed, and with an entire building full of Alpha survivors, I’m sure I won’t even have the burden of choosing whom myself.”

“Not if you choose now. You know Sally, and me, are you close to anyone else? Let someone bond with you and the rest will leave you alone.”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not? You want to be gangbanged? I’ve seen that shit, My, it’s not nearly as kinky as people make it out to be!”

“I will not give what little free will I have over to some bull-headed Alpha who thinks I’m his to toy with as he pleases. My body will heal. I will bond with no one.”

“You’re mad,” Sally stated firmly.

“I’m stubborn, but I’m sure most would argue there is little difference,” Mycroft winced as Gregory finished tying off the bandage on his head.

“I’m not letting you do this to yourself. Sally, did any of the cells survive?”

“Yeah, a few, but I’ve no idea where the keys are,” Sally stated with a shrug.

“Better and better. Help me get him to them.”

They each took an arm and guided Mycroft to the cells, most were too bent up to close, but one was still intact. They slid it along its track a few times, brushing debris out of the way, before settling Mycroft on one of the cots within. Lestrade checked the facilities, but there was no water coming through, just like in the bathrooms they’d located.

“Alright, you’ll be safe in here, in agony, but safe. You sure you don’t at least want company? You don’t have to bond, but you’re going to be hurting with nothing but your fingers. Hell, you’ll probably just offer yourself through the bars after a bit.”

Mycroft considered, “The doors will not be able to be opened once you close them?”

“Nope.” Sally stated, “Not unless someone finds the keys, and that whole wall has gone fuck knows where.”

“Fine. Sally, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your company,” Mycroft requested calmly.

Lestrade turned and started walking away, but Sally was stammering out a refusal.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve got a boyfriend. Sorry. _Really_ , sorry.”

“Very well, I suppose some constable will do. Gregory, you’ll choose, won’t you?”

“It’s D.I. Lestrade, and yeah, I’ll choose.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade passed about ten men before he found one he’d let touch Mycroft Holmes, and it was only because the kid was fresh into the academy, nervous all the time, and likely a virgin at his age. He was only 20.

“You, what’s your name, son?” Lestrade growled angrily.

“Avery. Dennis Avery… I mean… Police Constable Dennis Avery, Sir… Did I do something wrong?”

“Walk with me.”

Avery followed him with enough fear stink to make Lestrade feel guilty.

“Relax, son, I just need to ask you something away from the boys,” Lestrade consoled him, “It’s a bit personal, but it’s important you’re honest. You ever have sex? Even oral? Or do intravenous drugs?”

“Y… yes, Sir, er, to the sex bit, not the drugs.”

“You use protection?”

“Not… not for the oral, Sir.”

“You been tested?”

“Yes, it was a requirement to join the force. All clean, Sir.”

“Fantastic, you’re about to have lots of unprotected sex. You’ll want to get tested afterwards. Sorry about that.”

“Sir, I’m an Alpha!” The young man protested, taking a step back in fear, “That’s illegal, you’d…”

“Not with me! Idiot!” Lestrade pushed the young man towards the cells and he blinked in surprise at whom he saw there.

“An Omega?” Avery asked, his voice a bit awed. He’d probably rarely approached one since they were kept in different classes after primary.

“An Omega who’s about to go on heat. It’s your lucky day. Try not to get to attached, though, they call him the Iceman for a reason.”

Lestrade turned away, intending to get as far away from this section as possible, even if it meant digging in the dirt with the other boys, but he didn’t get far before Mycroft called out for him.

“A child, Detective Inspector? He could be my grandson!” Mycroft scoffed.

“Is he?” Lestrade asked, refusing to turn around.

“Certainly not!”

“Then I don’t see the problem. Look on the bright side, he’ll be nice and energetic.”

“I’m not bedding a juvenile. Find me someone else,” Mycroft demanded imperiously.

“Avery’s freshly recruited, which means freshly tested, unless you’d like to get AIDS?”

That was met with silence. Lestrade finally turned around, meeting Mycroft’s eyes and seeing the fear he was trying to hide there.

“Me or you go it alone. If you choose that then Sally and I will pile up as much rubbish against the walls to make sure no one goes at you through the bars.”

“You,” Mycroft stated quietly.

“Sorry to get your hopes up Avery,” Lestrade nodded to him, “warn everyone to stay away from this area, yeah? No need to get them all hot and bothered for nothing.”

“Yes, Sir,” Avery took off as though he was relieved. He probably was.

Lestrade stepped into the cell and Sally gave them both one last concerned look before leaving them alone as well.

“If we break through and find help, I’ll send a Beta,” She promised.

“Luck to you,” Lestrade nodded.

They both sat down on the cot in silence, waiting for Mycroft’s heat to hit. The door was still open. There was still time to back out.

The moment Mycroft’s scent began to change Lestrade quickly stood and slammed the cell door shut. He tugged on it a bit, but it was staying put.

“Alright, point of no return. Clothes off?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Mycroft replied.

They both stripped and then sat on the cot again, not ready to go forward until their bodies demanded it.

“For what it’s worth, I…” Lestrade started.

“Don’t,” Mycroft cut him off, “I believe those sorts of conversations are best left for pillows, of which we are decidedly short on.”

“Yeah. Right.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was agony sitting so close to this man and not being able to touch him. He knew he would soon, but the thrall of estrus would take away his choice in the matter. He didn’t want this. Perhaps if apologies were exchanged… Gregory had been about to offer something along those lines, but Mycroft wasn’t sure he could take it if it turned into a fight.

“Damn it, My. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not sorry for telling you off, but I’m sorry for how I did it. You’re not just a Sub, you’re my friend, too, and I wanted you to be more than that. I fucked it up, and for that I’m sorry.” Gregory burst out.

“Apology accepted.”

Mycroft expected Gregory to push for his own apology, and he did bristle, but then he just sighed and slumped a bit.

“I apologize as well,” Mycroft conceded, “I shouldn’t have swept in and tidied up for you. I was… trying to impress you.”

“Oh, yeah, well, that you did. I was good and impressed… and castrated. That, too, of course.”

“Do you know they used to castrate male Omega’s to make them more pleasing to the eye?”

“What…? How would that make them more pleasing to the eye?”

“It made them look more like Omega females, and took away the impression that they were Beta males or less well-endowed Alpha’s. I suppose it made them less threatening.”

“That’s just sick.” Gregory shook his head in disgust.

“That’s how Omega’s were viewed before we managed to free ourselves by outsmarting Alpha’s and Beta’s during the revolution,” Mycroft could feel his body temperature rising. He was beginning to sweat and he could feel his body aching inside as it tented in anticipation of mating. “We were chattel. Made to be bred and ignored. Beaten and abused. Many Alpha’s would wear nose plugs so if their Omega’s used a safety word they wouldn’t have to stop because of the stink of repellant pheromones.”

“That’s fucked up, My. I don’t see you like that. I never have and I never will.”

“Not true, you’re about to.” Mycroft gasped.

The heat hit with the force of a tsunami and Mycroft went from civilized to animalistic in an instant. He clawed at the cot and cried out for Gregory.

“Gregory. Please! I need you! Oh, god, it _hurts_!”

Gregory grabbed him by his ankles and tugged him onto his back, mounting Mycroft and sheathing himself in one smooth motion, ever the experienced and powerful lover. He was thrusting fast and hard, angling his hips to give Mycroft the maximum amount of pleasure, and gripping his hips tightly.

“Mmmmm, My, My, you’re… you’re not chattel, you’re… oh, fuck, oh… you’re brilliant.”

“Harder! Knot me!” Mycroft hadn’t meant to say that, but the need was too strong. He wanted this Alpha deeper inside of him. He wanted this Alpha to mark his neck and let him mark him, too. Mycroft moaned eagerly and Gregory responded in kind.

Mycroft felt like he was being consumed. Desire burnt through him like an inferno, devouring every last intelligent thought until all that existed was an animal, begging to be bred. Even the suppressants couldn’t hold off heat forever if no sexual satisfaction was met, and he had long stopped enjoying his dalliances with Anthea. The Beta woman’s fist couldn’t pleasure him the way Gregory had that one night.

“You’ve ruined me for other people,” Mycroft moaned, horrified that he couldn’t control his words.

“Oh, fuck, Mycroft, fuckfuckfuck, I’m getting so big, uhnnnnn.”

Mycroft gasped as he felt Gregory’s knot press against his entrance, he felt that surge of fear – that it just wouldn’t _fit_ – and than the most intense stretch before he was filled completely. Nothing compared to this. No toys, not Anthea’s fist, nothing gave him pleasure like an Alpha knotting him. That thick hard mass rubbed against his prostate with the perfect amount of pressure as Gregory gyrated his hips in search of release. The insides of Mycroft’s eyelids were a brilliant cascade of color as he trembled beneath the musky scented Alpha. He could feel the knot give one last pulse and then begin to empty. Hot seed filled his body and he cried out, arching as the feeling brought him over the edge. His cock emptied against his stomach and over his hand, though he didn’t recall reaching for himself.

“My! Oh, god, you’re so _tight_. M’gonna fill you up, My. Give you pups. You want that? Oh, god, your belly round and full!”

Mycroft outside of heat would have laughed at Gregory for assuming he wasn’t on birth control. Mycroft in heat mourned the pills he’d swallowed that morning and decided he wouldn’t swallow the rest when he returned home. Maybe there was still a chance he’d get pregnant? After all, they had the second round of pills for a reason. It must be due to the possibility of pregnancy occurring despite the first batch.

Their body’s stilled, sated for a moment after a truly mind-blowing orgasm for each of them, but they’d be writhing again soon, and one measly climax at a time wouldn’t cut it anymore.

“Mark me,” Mycroft decided, and turned his head to the side, the perfect picture a Submissive giving himself to his Alpha Dom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Mark me,” Mycroft whispered, and tilted his head to expose his lovely flushed throat.

Lestrade was overwhelmed. The scent, the feel, the beautiful man he had been wanking to memories of for two years. It was more than he’d ever dreamed of to be buried inside of him and have him asking for his mark. His own mark from Cheryl was completely faded after two years of scar removal cream. How unbelievably sexy would it be to look in the mirror every day and see the mark of this powerful Omega on his neck? Except that Lestrade and Cheryl had courted each other for five years before undergoing a marking, and they’d still ended in divorce. Mycroft and he barely knew each other, and attraction was definitely not enough.

Lestrade ran his tongue over the tempting expanse of throat but did not bite down. He suckled a bit, earning a whimper of approval from Mycroft, but he was now sure the man wasn’t in his right mind. Some Omega’s were supposedly affected more than others by heat. Some couldn’t even speak. Mycroft was clearly closer to that realm of consciousness. He was running on pure instinct. He’d regret it afterwards.

Lestrade meant to tell him what he meant. He intended to tell Mycroft that he _wanted_ to mark him, but not yet; not until they were both thinking with the heads on their shoulders instead of the ones between their legs. However, Mycroft’s next heat wave ran through him, and Gregory’s softening member firmed up again with an audible squish of fluids. Lestrade pulled out completely, flipped Mycroft onto his hands and knees, and thrust into him fast and hard. They were a moaning, panting mess in minutes. Following the age-old dance of mate, fuck, _breed_!

Three days later, when a Beta construction worker cut them out of the cage, Mycroft didn’t say two words to Lestrade before accepting a blanket and demanding he be led out of the area. Anthea met them outside of the rubble area in a walking cast. She gave Lestrade a glare that stopped him from pursuing Mycroft and led the Omega to a waiting car. Lestrade stood there, watching the car drive away, and wonder what on earth he’d done wrong this time.

It wasn’t until he’d had three calls ignored that he recalled Mycroft asking to be marked.

Well, fuck.

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/72786.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Give And Take Ch 4

Lestrade didn’t give up this time; he spent hundreds of dollars on gifts for Mycroft, desperately attempting to court the man from a distance since he refused to see him. Every single one was returned unopened. Eventually he stopped wrapping them and started sending constables to his door with parcel in hand. It got a bit awkward when Avery reminded him that he’d told _him_ not to get attached. He told the poor kid off and sent him away with his tail between his legs… and a box of gourmet coffee for Mycroft.

When the gifts continued to come back with increasingly distraught constables he decided to send a singing telegraph. He received a letter from the company asking him not to use their services again. He hired a mariachi band, something one of the Omega girls he knew as a kid used to gush over. He received a bill for a broken instrument minus the fee he’d given the band to play outside Mycroft’s window. Mycroft had apparently shot at them. At least the band was more polite about it and gave him condolences on his difficult to win Omega. He even ended up going out drinking with them and crying over his beer like a fool. He’d had enough drinks bought for him that night that he had to take a taxi home from an alley after waking up there with no idea where he was.

Mycroft eventually threatened to file suit against him if he continued and Lestrade slumped off in defeat. Then something wonderful happened. He got shot.

Lestrade woke up in the hospital with a bullet graze wound on his head. He’d fainted from blood loss and required a few staples, but was otherwise unharmed. If the bullet had been 1 mm to the right he’d have been killed. He was joking with Sally over how he would comb his hair to cover it when Mycroft just walked into the room as though he owned the building; he probably did.

“Sergeant Donovan, would you please excuse us,” Mycroft stated. It was not a request and Sally didn’t take it as one. She hurried out post haste.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade started, not entirely certain he was glad to see the man.

“Gregory,” Mycroft stated, with no small amount of hinting in his voice.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade amended with a nod.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Mycroft asked.

“Something I’m not sure you’re capable of giving,” Lestrade admitted.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but it took a fucking bullet to get you here.”

“Dinner. My home. As soon as you are released.”

“Not sure how comfortable I am with you ordering me about after what you’ve put me through.”

“I’m not certain I’m comfortable with having you over after what you’ve sent to my home.”

“Bad taste, was it?”

“Abhorrent.”

“Even the mariachi band?”

“Is that what they were? I thought they were incredibly loud _burglars_.”

They shared a chuckle but fell into awkward silence again.

“So, dinner?” Lestrade asked.

“If you’ll have me.”

Lestrade shivered at the unintentional innuendo. Actually, with a Holmes, it was probably intentional.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll call you?”

“I’ll make sure to have your number unblocked.”

“Thanks.”

Mycroft turned to leave just as John walked in, nearly colliding with him.

“Oh, Sorry, Mycroft. I was just coming in to see if Greg was okay. I heard you got shot, mate, bloody hell!”

“Yeah, it was a close one, I’ll tell you. So why did _you_ end up in the hospital a while ago, John?”

John sighed, as he always did when this question came up, and plopped the card he’d brought Lestrade down on the table.

“Not in front of Mycroft, please,” John sighed.

“If he’s referring to when you collapsed at 221B after being MIA for months on end, I’m both aware of the event and curious as well.” Mycroft intoned, finding himself a seat.

“Thanks, Greg,” John groused.

“Just looking out for you, like a pack Alpha should,” Lestrade replied.

“Look, guys, I appreciate the concern… or whatever it is you feel,” John waved at Mycroft who only smirked at him, “But I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself.”

“Cleary you can’t,” Mycroft sneered.

“Mrs. Hudson said it was the worse case of topdrop she’d ever seen. She said you were talking about killing yourself,” Lestrade replied, keeping his voice soft and careful.

“It wasn’t topdrop, and I wasn’t talking about killing myself. She had it wrong, okay? I got dehydrated and passed out. I was delusional.”

“You were in a fucking _coma_ for months,” Lestrade reminded.

“I woke up, though, and I’m not stupid enough to try that shit again,” John snapped, then paled immediately.

“Shit, John? What shit? Drugs? You were on drugs?” Lestrade asked in shock.

John looked away, but his face was a mess of guilt. Well, that answered a lot.

“I am perfectly willing to put you up in the best rehab clinic, John. The one Sherlock went to was quite excellent. He’ll never admit it, but it was his first step on the road to recovery.” Mycroft offered, accidentally speaking about Sherlock as if he were still alive. It always creeped Lestrade out when he did that.

“I’m clean, and I have been for over a year. I’m fine. Honest. It was… it was a mistake. It won’t happen again. I’m an idiot, not an addict. Thank you, Mycroft, but no.”

He was lying. They could all tell he was, and a glance at Mycroft let Lestrade know he’d be looking into it. John’s flat would be searched from top to bottom before he even got off the tube.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft had to admit that he was enjoying himself. He wasn’t having sex, but he _was_ still enjoying himself. He and Gregory had decided to take things slowly. That was all well and good, of course, but one did get a bit antsy. Still, they had a lovely time getting to know each other. At first Mycroft had been despaired that Gregory’s idea that they could have a relationship outside of sex was ridiculous and a bit newfangled, but Gregory turned out to have an open mind and a ready wit. Soon they were exploring aspects of each other’s lives that each found exhilarating.

Gregory, it turned out, enjoyed wine tastings and was a surprisingly good conversationalist when he left his Yard-talk behind. Mycroft, on the other hand, found he had an immediate love of poker and was soon smoking cigars and swearing with ‘the lads’ whenever a Thursday night found him free. They made time for each other as often as possible, but work came first for both of them and it wasn’t until Mycroft’s next heat was approaching that they sat down to discuss where their relationship was headed.

The next day Sherlock Holmes walked into New Scotland Yard and everything went to hell in a hand basket.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was careful not to argue with Mycroft in front of John and Sherlock, which was decidedly easy since the berk made himself scarce after Sherlock showed up alive and well. They had one screaming match on the phone and then nothing for months. Lestrade spent many sleepless nights wondering whom Mycroft spent his heat with, and the answer wasn’t good for his heart.

Really, though, Sherlock was his _pack_. It wasn’t right that Mycroft had left him out of the loop; he’d been mourning the man for three fucking years! He loved Sherlock, in a completely plutonic way, but he still did love him dearly. Now he felt he had another chance and everything was going to pot.

John had shown up with Sherlock and they’d both been sporting subdual marks, which Lestrade had been happy to add to. They’d gone running after criminals just like old times only to find out something was amiss with John. He was acting off, and he knew an awful lot of Alpha Submissives. Then Sherlock had shouted for an ambulance and Lestrade had recognized subdrop the second he saw it. The tattoo on John’s arm only confirmed it.

At the hospital the man they’d been dead set on questioning had provided them all with sound alibi’s and demanded to see John. He claimed they had a contract together, unsigned, but a contract nonetheless. He was John’s Master and John needed him. After two months of not being able to wake him, they’d given in and Lestrade had pulled strings until the man had been granted access to John’s rooms. John had awoken after only an hour of the man murmuring soothing words into his ear and Lestrade thought he could actually _see_ the moment Sherlock’s heart broke. He hadn’t been able to face John after that. He knew now where he’d been over two years ago and why he’d fallen ill afterwards. He’d run from his Perfect Match, probably because he didn’t want to share the man with his other slaves, and ended up in subdrop. If they’d been bonded then there was no doubt John would have died from the separation.

Sherlock insisted on talking to John once he was fully alert to his surroundings. He told Lestrade he and John had been intimate once he’d returned, and he wanted to apologize to Master Omega Dom and break things off cleanly with John. He needed closure. It was the most open and vulnerable Lestrade had ever seen Sherlock, and he told him he’d be there for him after. They’d left the hospital and gotten pissed at Baker Street. Sherlock had wept for hours. Lestrade had firmly sworn he’d never speak to John again, and that the man was no longer a part of his pack.

It made it all the more painful when John had shown up on the stoop to 221B Baker Street near death and threatening suicide once more. When John was released from the hospital and placed in an inpatient mental health facility Lestrade went to visit him regularly. They worked with Dr. Katinski to repair their own broken bond, even as John struggled to find a way to accept another Dom in Sherlock. It was Lestrade who had told Sherlock to use their heat cycle to lower the inhibitions John was feeling. When it worked he wanted to cheer them the whole way home. Instead he’d called Mycroft and begged the man to see him again. He insisted that if John and Sherlock could manage it, so could they. He still hadn’t heard back by the time John texted him again.

_From: John Watson  
I’m leaving Sherlock. Please come at once. He needs you._

It was like a bad dream, and there was no way to wake up. Sherlock was in topdrop something fierce, blaming himself for John falling in with Moran the first time around. Blaming himself for handing John over to Moran the second time around. Blaming himself for John leaving to return to Moran this time around. He wept, slept, was force fed, was forced to drink fluids, was bathed by his brother and Molly, was wrapped in blankets and surrounded by his pack. After the first day the Beta’s were called in. They couldn’t take care of him without outside assistance, and Beta’s could leave the furpile to get supplies as needed.

John’s return was both a blessing and a curse. Sherlock attempted to kill himself the second Donovan mentioned getting a text from him. All hell broke loose and he had to be forcibly restrained. The Omega’s held him down while the Beta’s hid any possible weapons and the Alpha’s prepared to subdue or kill John as necessary to protect their breedable Omega. Mycroft was like a vengeful angel. He had asked Lestrade to kill John if it came to it; he wanted no one else to rain down the final blow.

John had walked in and dropped to the ground in instant obeisance, he’d begged for Sherlock back, insisting he hadn’t been unfaithful, and was the picture of submission despite his Alpha scent. The moment Sherlock had relented they’d all descended on John to welcome him back, anger and misery forgotten in a wave of longing to be complete by having all of their pack members near. Mycroft had been the one to tug Lestrade away from the happy couple and pull him over to a chair.

“I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. Please, Gregory, please.” Mycroft had whispered as they’d kissed passionately.

Lestrade had no problem dropping to his knees before his Submissive in the face of so many words that he never thought he would hear from those pouty lips. He grabbed the seat Mycroft had apparently expected him to sit in, and dragged it over to the mattress on the floor. Perfect height. He shoved his naughty aristocrat into the chair, knelt between his legs, and started tearing his clothes off. There was no time for kink in their minds, just a frantic longing to be with each other as completely as possible.

The second pants were out of the way Lestrade fingered Mycroft to readiness, ignoring his pleading to just fuck him already, and then pressed inside. It was like coming home. They fucked fast and hard, Lestrade stroking Mycroft to completion twice before thrusting his knot inside of him and coming with a strangled cry. He rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck gently. He waited for a sign from him, but Mycroft didn’t tilt his head for him this time.

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/73168.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Give And Take Ch 5

Mycroft knew he was being childish by avoiding Gregory again, but his pride had taken an enormous blow when the man had refused to mark him. Still, it had been like coming alive again when they’d fallen to such passion during Sherlock’s furpile. He couldn’t imagine another Alpha or Beta laying hands on him, yet his heat was fast approaching and the last one done with toys had been agonizing. He had never had the success his brother did holding his estrus cycle at bay, despite the fact they were on the same dose of suppressants for many years. Mycroft had broken down and asked Sherlock once what his secret was, but his answer had seemed more intentioned to embarrass him. Pleasure himself internally and often? Ridiculous. How would that hold off a heat?

Still, the new dose of suppressants, the previous ones had to be adjusted after Gregory and he shared a heat for some reason, were working fairly well and he hadn’t had a heat cycle in many months. Which was why when he suddenly found himself put off his food and short tempered shortly after being intimate with the Alpha, he became seriously concerned that it was Gregory himself who was triggering his heat cycles.

Deciding there was nothing for it, he rang the detective that evening to see if he could request his help with a heat cycle; hopefully he would be able to avoid humiliating himself in the process since the man seemed determined to complicate his life.

“Lestrade here,” Gregory’s voice was business like and there was a sound of cutlery and chatter in the background. A date he didn’t want interrupted by an ex-lover?

“Good evening, Gregory, I trust you are well?”

“I… give me just a second,” there was a pause before the noise level on the others side was drastically reduced, “Sorry, at a restaurant.”

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Mycroft asked, his stomach clenching painfully… from the heat, of course.

“No, god, no, there’s been no one besides you since… What can I do for you, My?”

_No one since…?_ Mycroft pondered. _Since that kiff we had? Since the heat we shared? Since my brother’s faux funeral?_

“Then perhaps you will be amenable to meeting with me in a day or two?”

There was a pause at the other end, then a sigh, “Heat cycle?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I seem plagued by them despite the suppressants.”

“It’s been frequent?”

“Yes and no, they’ve been erratic. I had one a few weeks after we shared one together, but I was out of town and forced to care for my own needs.” Mycroft put as much distaste into that sentence as he could to make sure Gregory knew he had no intention of doing so again.

“Right, I’ll just… the thing is I might not be able to get off work. We’re not… you know… so I don’t have a right to take a Heat Leave.”

“I can make arrangements for you, with your permission, of course.” Mycroft suggested carefully.

“That’s… Let me see if I can handle it first, yeah? If I can’t I’ll call you back, though.”

“Certainly.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Gregory looked apprehensive when Mycroft opened the door for him. Most likely he was worried about the state of their friendship, so Mycroft tried to put him at ease.

“After this is over I’d like us to spend some time as we used to. Perhaps we could join a club or two, as well?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that!” Gregory looked relieved so Mycroft took his coat and led him upstairs to his own bedroom.

“I thought it best to have our heat here,” Mycroft stated, “There’s food in the minibar for you and the en-suite is through there. I’ve put a few toys out, but you’re welcome to raid the dungeon if you have something particular in mind.”

“Fantastic,” Gregory checked the mini fridge and seemed satisfied with its contents. It was mostly tasteless high carb bars and protein shakes; perfect for a long heat cycle. Mycroft, of course, would only have water until the end, most of which would be converted into his lubricant so his use of the bathroom would be minimal.

“I’m not far off, I think; probably only an hour or two. Did you want to get a meal in first?”

“I ate before I came over, just in case you were closer to starting,” Gregory replied, clearly familiar with the Omega instinct to fast before a heat.

“Very well, perhaps we could watch a movie? I’ve picked up some new ones since you were last here.”

“Actually, I’d like to talk,” Gregory stated, giving him a significant look.

“I’d rather not risk an unpleasant heat by arguing first,” Mycroft frowned, trying to keep his voice firm.

“I just want to know where I stand, My. What am I to you?”

“A friend, I suppose.” Mycroft tried.

“Who you only call during heat and family emergencies?”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose; “I would really appreciate it if we could _not_ do this so close to my heat. Being upset ahead of time puts me in a rather unpleasant place throughout the heat and increases my likelihood of going into subdrop afterwards.”

That did the trick, as Gregory turned consoling and comforting immediately, falling back on Mycroft’s suggestion that they watch a movie. They settled down on the bed and Mycroft put a show on his laptop. Gregory scooted close, draping an arm around his shoulder and Mycroft snuggled in, content in the warmth and reassuring scent of an Alpha. Part of him wanted this domestic scene, the idea that this man would be in his bed every night – well, every night he was actually home. However, a much larger part was far too used to the freedom that only a bachelor Sub could enjoy, and Mycroft recalled bitterly how Gregory had silenced him and ignored his attempts to explain himself. True, Gregory was sorry for that, and Mycroft had realized the error of his ways, but it did not relieve Mycroft of the feeling of being repressed for the first time in decades. He wasn’t just a bachelor, he was an _old_ bachelor, and not inclined to alter his way of life just for a cheerful Dom who was rather talented in the bedroom.

“You’re thinking, My,” Gregory murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple, “You know sometimes talking gets that out. What do you think Sherlock has John for?”

“Siring children with other Omega’s so Sherlock can keep his figure, apparently.” Mycroft spat out angrily.

Gregory sighed, “You know that was rape, My.”

“Yes, I know, but it doesn’t make it easy knowing my brother is being cuckolded by a man I admire and would like to see siring children with _him_ instead. No, don’t bother correcting me, I know John isn’t intentionally doing this to Sherlock, it’s just not easy to stand by and allow to happen.”

“As much as I’d like to reassure you about all this, I don’t think that was what was running through that ginger head of yours a moment ago.”

“No, it wasn’t. Gregory,” Mycroft shifted so he was out of the man’s very comfortable embrace and faced him instead, “I’m not willing to settle down. Not ever. I do care for you, I think I made that _embarrassingly_ clear at Sherlock’s furpile, but I value my freedom and privacy above all else. I’ve gone this long without a steady Dom, and while I’d be happy to have you fulfill that role, it could never be as my Alpha as well. I can’t, and won’t, bond with you.”

Oh, but that was only _half_ true, and Mycroft knew it. It actually _hurt_ to lie to this man, especially knowing that he was going to be hurt by it as well.

“Okay, so bondmates are off the table, though I won’t say I understand why, I guess I’m just going to have to live with it. You said you want me as your Dom, though?” Gregory was making an admirable effort not to look crushed.

“Correct.”

“Do you want a collar?”

Mycroft thought about it a moment, his hand creeping up to touch his bare neck and a wistful feeling moving through him.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to wear your collar.”

Gregory beamed and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips.

“I have one, I know it’s a bit forward, but I saw it and picked it up because it reminded me of you. No engraved tag, though we could do that. If you want to choose one yourself, though, it’s fine with me.”

“Let’s see it.” Mycroft automatically replied, then winced interally as he recalled this man wasn’t exactly rolling in wealth.

Gregory cheerfully headed over to his overnight bag and tugged out a slim box. He presented it to Mycroft with a reverent caress across the top. Mycroft took the box with no small amount of trepidation; clearly this particular collar meant a great deal to him, but he doubted the man had bought anything worthy of a Holmes on a D.I.’s salary.

He was wrong. Profoundly wrong. The craftsmanship was superb, not the best he’d seen, but certainly quite fine. The leather was the typical red-brown semi-hard leather, but a beautiful flowing pattern had been tooled into it similar to one you would find on a very tasteful tie. Since it was all one color it was not obvious from a distance, nor was it gaudy up close, but instead gave off the impression of being delicately refined. The inside collar was thickly padded to avoid chaffing and covered with a delicate red silk. The buckle and blank rectangular tag were both gold, most likely real, and a perfect offset. This was the sort of collar that required yearly cleaning and re-padding by a professional, just the sort of thing to make an Omega Sub feel cherished – by its monetary value - and productive - because it required maintenance - all at once.

“Gregory this… this must have cost you a small fortune.” Mycroft stammered, shocked by the level of devotion he was showing by buying a recalcitrant Sub an expensive collar they might not have wanted.

“Yes, well, like I said it made me think of you,” Gregory replied, blushing furiously and rubbing the back of his head.

“If you regularly spend such funds on things that remind you of me, you may soon be living on the streets,” Mycroft half teased.

“It was important, My. You know why.”

Mycroft looked up at Gregory, intending on telling him that he couldn’t begin to comprehend why, but it was written across the man’s face. Hope. He had bought it hoping that Mycroft would accept it some day. Judging by how worn the corners of the box were, he had looked at it regularly, possibly he carried it with him whenever there was a chance of seeing him. He might even have carried it everywhere, every day.

“How long have you had this?” Mycroft asked, suspecting the date by the boxes style and wear, but not entirely positive.

“Two years.”

“You’ve had this for two years? We hadn’t even been speaking for over a year. What possibly could have led you to believe we would get to this point some day? What made you even _hope_ that we would?”

“Like I said, there’s been no one since you,” Gregory shrugged indifferently, “I’m not going to be ridiculously romantic and say you’re my Perfect Match, I don’t think we’d have managed to stay apart for so long if we were, but I’m mad for you, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft looked back down at the collar, clasped gently but firmly in his hands and pondered Gregory’s words. The man was correct that they were most likely not a Perfect Match, judging by John’s description of how empty and dead he’d felt away from Sherlock after only the most casual of intimacy, but that did not mean they weren’t a perfect for each other anyway. True, they did not compliment or complete each other the way John and Sherlock did, but they did satisfy needs in each other that were otherwise unmet on their own; each seemed under the impression that someone else couldn’t meet those needs successfully. What did that mean for them? If Mycroft accepted this collar and wore it as Gregory’s unbonded Submissive, was he trapping himself as surely as if he bonded with the man?

Mycroft felt a sudden cramping in his abdomen and his lub-pad passed beyond the point of supersaturated. Gregory groaned, smelling the change in hormones on him, and Mycroft placed the collar on the nightstand in favor of tearing his clothing off. There was a frantic tangle of limbs and cloth, then they were both bare, ignoring the laptop that toppled to the floor, and rutting against each other in pursuit of friction.

Gregory flipped the needy Omega over onto his stomach and ran his tongue up his sweet smelling cleft, teasing his entrance on the way down before tonguing his bullocks until the man was pleading for his cock.

“I _need_ you Gregory! Fill me! Please! Please! I _need your cock!_ ”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade wordlessly mounted him, thrusting in hard and setting a brutal rhythm the way he knew Mycroft preferred it; stately outside the bedroom - wild jungle sex inside the bedroom. He manipulated Mycroft’s arms and legs until his face was buried in the mattress and his arse high in the air for Lestrade’s pleasure. He knotted him hard, and continued to thrust until movement was impossible. Then he pushed him down flat and stretched across his body, grinding his knot against his prostate and Mycroft’s prick into the satin covered mattress. He felt Mycroft clench, crying out beautifully as he convulsed in pleasure. Lestrade held himself back, wanting Mycroft to come at least once more, and the man obliged by rolling immediately into a second orgasm. Lestrade let himself go, biting Mycroft’s shoulder instinctively, but holding back his canines since the man had requested not to be bonded. It was a near thing, but he didn’t taste blood.

Mycroft meanwhile had been thrown into a third climax by Lestrade’s bite and was screaming his name and babbling on the top of his lungs.

“Gregory! Yes! Yes! Bite me! Oh, fuck _yes_!! Ahhhhhh, I’m coming so _hard._ Oh, god your knot! YES!!”

The man collapsed beneath him and Lestrade grabbed the collar from the stand.

“Sorry if you’re still not sure about this, My, you can always take it off later, but if you’re not wearing it I’m not going to be able to stop myself from marking you next time. I want you so fucking _much_.”

Lestrade slipped the collar around the sleeping man’s neck and buckled it loosely in place. He stroked his finger along the edge, enjoying the raised pattern beneath his excited skin, and soon found himself pulsing out yet another jet of fluid into Mycroft’s slumbering body. This man was his Sub. He might have no legal claim over him since they weren’t bonded, but this showed a level of commitment from him that Lestrade had only dreamed of up until this point. The man he loved was wearing his collar.

Deciding that wasn’t going to be enough for his panting instincts, Lestrade waited until he was able to slip free, and snatched some handcuffs from the box at the bedside and chained him up with arms and legs spread eagle. A few moments later and Mycroft was panting under Lestrade’s hand as he brought it down across that pale backside over and over again, turning it a beautiful red, before mounting him once more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They had four days on heat, an unusually long time, but not unheard of. Lestrade lay there, sore and drained, while Mycroft bounced up with the usual manic energy Omega’s tended to have a few hours after heat ended. The man bolted for the loo, and then scurried out the door, probably to get food. His Omega instincts would tell him to gorge himself and then go give food to his exhausted Alpha. Since they weren’t bonded, he might not have that last urge, but Lestrade hoped he would since he wasn’t sure he could move.

“Think I pulled something,” Lestrade told the canopy above him.

Omega’s spent most of their heat sleeping, often experiencing multiple orgasms all while dreaming away the days. They woke to drink fluids and demand more sex, interspersed with occasional bathroom breaks and little agonizing stretches of sore limbs. Once the heat ended they awoke after a roughly four-hour nap, energized and eager to start nesting in anticipation of pregnancy; although the suppressants usually curbed the nesting instinct since the same hormone was part of pregnancy and the suppressants also (mostly) prevented that.

Lestrade lay there wondering how Mycroft would take it if they ended up pregnant despite the suppressants and the birth control pills. It was illegal to get an abortion in most countries, but it wouldn’t shock him if Mycroft just took off to another one and got it done anyway. Lestrade shuddered in revulsion. No. Mycroft wouldn’t do something like that. Sebastian Moran was the only Omega he’d ever heard of that actually disliked the child inside of him without rape having been the cause of the pregnancy - well, rape of the Omega, technically John had been the one raped. Omega instinct was to crave children, even other people’s children, to the extent a barren Omega was a risk and would have to be heavily medicated so they wouldn’t kidnap their neighbor’s cubs. Telling an Omega you were going to get them up the duff was the hottest dirty talk an Alpha could pant mid-coitus.

Likewise, Alpha’s craved the pride that siring a cub would bring them; the site of a pregnant Omega, their belly round with child, was supremely erotic and inspired an urge to carry the Omega off and protect them. There was the inherent longing to prove their fertility and create a family to love and protect. All people were social creatures; a pack was one thing but a family of your own gave you a sense of permanency and safety. Bearing and siring children was tantamount to immortality, something Beta’s were sadly denied.

Mycroft bustled in then, in full subfrenzy, eager to dote on Lestrade while he lay exhausted in the bed. Mycroft started by helping Lestrade limp to the en-suite where he used the toilet (he had to sit he was so sore) and then eased him into a hot bath. Mycroft knelt by the side of the tub in his paisley cotton pajamas and rubbed Lestrade down with a flannel, but Lestrade insisted on washing his own hair. It was while he was scrubbing Lestrade’s chest that the Alpha noted his collar was still on Mycroft’s neck. In fact, it appeared to have been tightened. Lestrade could have crowed with delight, and he might have gotten aroused by it had his body had anything left to give. Instead, Lestrade settled for praising Mycroft, caressing his cheek and telling him how beautiful he was while taking care of him, and what a wonderful Submissive he was. Mycroft smiled and blushed prettily, keeping his eyes lowered demurely. Lestrade was undeniably in love with him.

Finally he was helped back to the bedroom where he was served breakfast in bed by his doting Omega. _This_ was the life! Not that he thought he’d be waited on hand and foot on a regular basis, but once in a while after a heat cycle was something utterly beautiful. His Beta ex-wife had been a hopeless case for him; while she would play at being submissive she expected fair turnaround and Lestrade had _hated_ being submissive to her.

_Wait a minute… what if?_

“My? Do you hate this?” Lestrade asked him, “When I was with my ex, she was a Beta you remember, she’d ask me to sub for her sometimes. I hated it. I mean _really_ hated it. If you hate it to, you don’t have to, you know. Not always.”

Mycroft stared at him as though he’d grown a second head and Lestrade looked away, murmuring an apology.

“It’s not that I hate it, Gregory,” Mycroft stated, sitting down beside him with a sigh, “It’s that I hate being compelled to do anything, and for me that’s what it is. You were only playacting with your ex wife. I feel an irrepressible _urge_ to do things that are often humiliating.”

“Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Mycroft thought for a moment, “Kneeling in itself isn’t humiliating, but the fact that I sometimes can’t control when I do it is. Then there’s this… No offense Gregory, but cleaning my bodily fluids and both our sweat off of you isn’t exactly a part of my personality.”

“Geez, My, I’m sorry! Why didn’t you say anything? I wasn’t expecting you to _wash_ me. Fuck, now I feel like a jerk.”

“You’re not a jerk, Gregory, in fact I’m glad we’re discussing this. Most Alpha’s don’t listen to what I have to say unless I’m throwing my power around as a government official. Without a title I’m just a vessel to bear children.”

“They’re idiots. You’ve got so much to _give_ the world, all that stuff in that head of yours, and your voice is damn sexy, too.”

Mycroft chuckled, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Lestrade’s cheek.

“Thank you, Gregory, you’re quite the specimen yourself.”

“Is there anything I should be doing, My? To make you more comfortable, help you be more yourself? Should I tell you to stop doing certain things? Dom you?”

“That would probably be worse, it would just make me feel as though I had failed as a Submissive. Being Submissive is something I cannot control, the only thing, really. I feel this undeniable urge to debase myself and I simply must. The way you can help me the most is by not drawing unnecessary attention to it. If I do something for you, like bathe you, a simple thank you will suffice. There’s no need to praise me unless you fear I’m headed for subdrop.”

Lestrade blushed, thinking of how good it had felt to praise him, “I… I’m not sure I can do that. I mean I’ll try not to make a big stink, but the praising? It’s not even something I can control.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked, leaning forward with open curiosity.

“I guess… I guess you’re not the only one with impulses. Most people only know about Alpha’s urges in regards to subduing lesser Doms and Subs, or the spontaneous erections (which are a bitch, by the way) but there’s a good deal more to it than that.”

“Tell me.”

“I have this need to take care of you, My. Not the way you do me, but I feel like I have to guard you. It goes deeper than physical protection, though. There are times when you get this distant look on your face and I… I…” Lestrade broke off, ashamed of his thoughts.”

“Please, Gregory? This is so very enlightening.” Mycroft petted his arm gently.

“Don’t get angry it’s… I have this horrid urge to hit you.”

“Hit me?” Mycroft leaned back, alarmed.

“Not like that! I mean… put you over my knee and spank you; sadistic hitting, not abusive. I have no idea why. I’ve barely restrained myself sometimes.”

“Because of a distant look on my face?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense to me. Then there’s the urge to praise you whenever you’re acting submissive. Then there’s how I feel like,” Lestrade looked away, ashamed, “I feel like I have to p…pleasure you. As though if I don’t do it, and do it _right_ , then I don’t deserve to live.”

“Gregory, if you’re contemplating harming yourself-“ Mycroft started, alarmed.

“No! Hell, no, it’s not abnormal, that feeling. Every Alpha I’ve ever known feels like that from time to time. It’s not that I’m thinking about _doing_ anything to myself, it’s just this feeling that I’m the scum of the earth if I don’t satisfy you.”

“That’s quite a bit to take in.” Mycroft stated thoughtfully, then leaned forward and kissed Lestrade soundly.

“What was that for?”

“For confiding in me and reminding me that we can be equals despite my urge to Submit and status as a brood mare.”

“You’re not a brood mare,” Lestrade laughed lightly, “I’d be fine with it if we bonded someday but never had kids. I’m too damn old for kids anyway.”

“Would you, Gregory? Would you really be content with that?” Mycroft asked with obvious disbelief.

“Content? Yeah. Happy? Not entirely, but I’d be a helluva lot happier than I am now.”

Mycroft frowned and touched the collar and Lestrade smiled, “I am glad you’re wearing it. It gives me more pleasure than I could ever describe, but you have to know that it’s part of my instincts to want more. Kids I can live without at my age, but I’m not going to lie to you, My. I want to bond. Not now, fine, but someday this isn’t going to be enough for me. It won’t be enough for you, either.”

“I know.” Mycroft moved the nearly empty breakfast tray and put his head down on Lestrade’s lap. Lestrade ran his fingers through his silken hair and tried to find something to say to break the deafening silence around them. He couldn’t think of a thing.

XXXXXXXXXX

The next morning he limped into the Yard to get whooped and howled at by his coworkers. Sally was smirking at him and made a gyrating motion with her hips while laughing at his limp.

“You gotta make them do _some_ of the work!”

“Oh, piss off,” Lestrade laughed happily.

“Who’s the lucky Omega?” Dimmock asked, craning his neck to look for a bite mark.

“We didn’t bond,” Lestrade said, shaking his head sadly, “He’s a bit shy on the idea. Doesn’t want to be bossed around _too_ much.”

“That’s just weird, I thought all Subs wanted to be bossed about… wait, is he like the Freak?” Sally asked.

“No, well, yes, well, not an Omega Dom, if that’s what you mean, but he’s a lot like him in other ways. Less annoying, though.”

“Wait, that redheaded James Bond fellow?” Dimmock asked, a look of awe on his face.

“The Freaks brother?” Sally laughed incredulously, “You spent four days buggering the Freaks brother? You’re lucky he’s away on holiday! He’d eat you alive!”

“How was he?” Dimmock asked, looking eager, “He’s quite the looker. You two are just casual?”

“Fuck sake, Dimmock, not _that_ casual. In fact he’s wear…”

“Good evening, Gregory, Inspector Dimmock, Sergeant Donovan, I hope you all are well.” Mycroft’s posh voice cut Lestrade of neatly, “Inspector Dimmock, while I appreciate your compliments, it would be even more appreciated if you would keep your perusal of my person to yourself.” Mycroft continued coldly.

Lestrade had turned quickly to greet Mycroft, but his grin quickly dropped to a look of shock. Lestrade was speechless, and didn’t even respond when Dimmock stammered an apology to them both. He was too busy grinding his teeth and doing everything in his power not to subdue Mycroft right then and there. Finally, realizing he was going to lose this battle, he grabbed the aristocrat by the arm and dragged him to his office. Lestrade slammed the door, pulled the blinds, and pressed Mycroft against the door with a feral snarl. He latched onto the man’s neck, sucking it angrily while thrusting his clothed erection against him repeatedly.

“Gregory, what on earth…”

“Where. Is. My. Collar. Mycroft?” Lestrade growled, accentuating each word with a thrust that shook the door in its frame.

“In my briefcase.” –Thrust.

“Why?” -Thrust.

“Because I had a meeting today with an important diplomat and Omega’s are terrible gossips. It’s unconventional to wear someone’s collar without being bonded, I might have offended someone.”

Lestrade stepped back, shaking with anger, and stared at his disheveled Submissive. Well, not quite _his_ Submissive.

“You think that’s alright then? You just take it off when you have work? Are you even going to wear it at all when I’m not around?”

“Gregory be reasonable…”

“Fuck reasonable!”

“ _War_ , Gregory, I spend my days avoiding _war_. It’s a bit more important than a sodding collar!”

“Get out.” Lestrade whispered, more hurt than angry, but still showing the anger.

Mycroft scowled at him, narrowed his eyes, straightened his suit jacket and hair, and left on pivoted heel.

He wasn’t even near the elevators when Lestrade realized what a putz he was being. Mycroft wasn’t _trying_ to hurt him; he had important work to do.

Lestrade sat down at his desk and pulled out his phone.

**To: Mycroft Holmes  
I’m sorry. I overreacted. Give me a day or two to calm down and I’ll make it up to you. Promise. It’s an Alpha thing. I know that’s a shit excuse for being a dick, but it’s true.**

**To: Gregory Lestrade  
I should have warned you ahead of time. Do you want your collar back?**

**To: Mycroft Holmes  
It isn’t my collar. It’s yours. I bought it for you. It was MADE for you. I just want to see it around your neck. I know I’m being a tit. Let me be a bit. Please?**

Lestrade stared at his phone and wished he hadn’t sent that last message. He’d have to be the one to initiate contact again and he was in absolute agony at the moment. It shouldn’t _mean_ so much, but it did, because he’d thought when Mycroft asked for his collar that it meant Mycroft was acknowledging his importance in the aristocratic Omega’s life and his own willingness to Submit to him. Now he knew it for what it was: a peace offering, a mere token of affection.

Despite the three months of salary he’d spent on it that collar suddenly seemed completely worthless.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft made it to the car downstairs despite the ache forming in his chest that was gradually making it impossible to breathe. Anthea was in the car and gave him an alarmed look as he fumbled frantically in his briefcase for his collar. Gregory’s last text was running through his mind and he was headed for a hard subdrop. He’d failed as Gregory’s Submissive after only _one day_. The state of the world, be damned, he needed that collar on! Now!

Anthea snatched it from his fumbling fingers, putting it snug around his throat and buckling it. Then she tugged him close, pressing his head into her lap and murmuring soothing words. A button at her side let the driver know to take them to hospital where a private room would be discreetly provided. Mycroft didn’t even have enough awareness to argue.

XXXXXXXXXX

Gregory was at hospital with him; he couldn’t see him, but he could smell his aftershave and practically _sense_ his presence. Mycroft clutched tightly at the hand that had been stroking the back of his, and brought it to his lips to press desperate kisses to each knuckle. He vaguely realized he was begging for forgiveness, but it was hardly important at the moment.

“My, sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m not mad. You’re so beautiful. I’m so proud of you for putting my collar on now. You’re so precious to me. I’d die if you fell ill, please open your eyes.”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open, then he groaned and blinked frantically at the bright lights. Gregory barked at someone to dim them and when that was done they stared at each other hungrily.

“You’re a wonderful Submissive, My, so responsive, always knowing what I want before I can ask…”

“No, I’m not, and I don’t.” Mycroft whispered back, closing his eyes again as tears started up in them.

“Yeah, you are. We had a disagreement; I was in the wrong. None of this is your fault, My.”

“I took off your collar.”

“You had to.”

“I could have put makeup on to make it look like a bondmark and used oil to disguise the scent. I thought about it and then decided removing the collar was easier.”

Gregory was silent and Mycroft started _looking_ for subdrop, he was so desperate to get away from that glaring disapproval.

“I love you, My. I’m not going to stop loving you, no matter how hard you push me away. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mycroft sobbed, turning his head away in shame, but Gregory refused to allow it. He gently coaxed him back, eased him upright, and pressed Mycroft’s face against his shoulder. He wept there for ages, not only for his own foolish actions, but because he had never had such an aching longing to mark Gregory before. It took every ounce of strength he had to restrain himself. Finally he succumbed to exhaustion and slept.

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/73394.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Give And Take Ch 6

Lestrade stared at his desktop calendar and the circled date with near frantic anticipation. Two days from now was the one-month anniversary of the day he’d collared Mycroft. Normally he didn’t go in for something less than a one-year anniversary, but with the way their relationship worked he was tempted to celebrate each day that they remained drama free. So one month of no break-ups, fights, sub/domdrop (aside from the one the day after Mycroft’s heat ended) or ignored calls was nothing short of a breakthrough for them. They’d both been very careful, taking a page out of John and Sherlock’s therapist’s book and stating their needs and wants plainly.

This had been particularly difficult for Lestrade because he was always afraid of disrupting Mycroft’s very complicated life. One day, after a particularly rough D/s scene in which Lestrade had cut twelve thin lines across Mycroft’s back with a razor blade, Lestrade had gone into very severe topdrop. He’d been near suicidal, picturing the blood running down Mycroft’s back and feeling horrifically ashamed of how aroused it had made him, and still did. In between sobbing into the phone to Sally about how on earth he could have done such a thing to the man he loved, and texting John to come back from his parent’s house because he was convinced Mycroft needed a live-in doctor until his back healed, both of them finally convinced him to contact Mycroft and tell him he needed help.

When Mycroft arrived at his house he had been the epitome of loving, supportive Submissive. He’d wrapped Lestrade in a blanket, kneeled at his feet, and described to him in explicit detail just now unbelievably aroused and fulfilled he’d felt after that scene. He’d then gone on to explain that he’d been in an important meeting when he’d received Lestrade’s text and had been forced to show the individual involved his collar in order to make a proper excuse to leave. The person had been very accepting, but Mycroft expected fallout.

“I’m sorry, My, god, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not. You need me and I would far rather be disrupted than find you had slit your wrists because my career stood in the way of the alleviation of your topdrop. I wouldn’t be able to recover from that, Gregory. You do understand that, don’t you? You must call me immediately next time this occurs. Don’t wait a day and let it fester. A Dom is as entitled to aftercare as a Sub is, and you would never leave me alone if you thought I was unwell after a scene; nor do I wish to leave you in such a state.”

That had been a week ago, and they were still going strong.

“One month,” Lestrade chortled to the picture he kept on his desk of his paramour. It was a rather stiff and formal picture of Mycroft, posing beside a tree in a park with his lip curled in distaste, his umbrella clutched tightly in both hands prodding the ground beneath him, his clothing the usual full suit and tie. No one understood why he kept such an unpleasant looking photo of his Sub on his desk, but Lestrade was convinced it was better than any shot he had of Mycroft pretending to smile or even the few he’d taken of the man sleeping (which he’d never put on a desk anyway). The reason was simple: he knew what the man looked like satisfied, and the picture gave him a deep-seated urge to go find Mycroft and wipe that disgusted look off his face. Preferably by shooting a load of come across it.

_My’s such a cumslut_. Lestrade thought cheerfully as he recalled the night before and how he’d sniffed some scented oil of ‘Omega-in-heat’ so he could fulfill a naughty fantasy Mycroft had about being covered in his lover’s slippery essence. Mycroft had stretched out in the bathtub while Lestrade had climaxed over him again and again, and moaned in excitement as he smeared Lestrade’s spunk across his body. He’d climaxed multiple times while tossing off using his lover’s semen as lubricant. They hadn’t had penetrative sex that night, Lestrade had practically collapsed when the oil had finally worn off, but it had been satisfying in ways neither of them had expected – despite the lengthy showers they required afterwards.

Lestrade was hard as a rock thinking about their month of mutual pleasure, so he tried to divert himself by planning which restaurant he’d take Mycroft to on their anniversary to celebrate. The man had been too busy to make the plans, but promised to be there – provided Lestrade’s reservation was a lengthy one and the D.I. was prepared to wait there until his Sub was free. Lestrade had located three restaurants in the city that were open until one in the morning and weren’t tacky or selling drugs, but they were all a ways off so he was debating finding something closer that shut down earlier and risking having the night not work out.

Sally disrupted his thoughts by throwing his office door open, a frantic look on her face.

“We’ve got a call in. B&E4H.”

A B&E4H was an Alpha breaking and entering for an Omega in heat. It wasn’t prosecutable even if rape did occur, but if the Omega called the police they’d come by and drag the frantic Alpha(s) away, usually collecting the Omega’s boy/girlfriend along the way and making sure he was the only one to get to the Omega.

“Not my division,” Lestrade replied, not interested in donning a hormone repellant mask and dragging horny Alpha’s away from the source of their angst.

“Omega’s locked himself inside and is asking for you,” Sally explained.

“What’s the address?” Lestrade asked, trying to recall which Omega’s in his pack might be in heat now. With Sherlock out of town and Mycroft only a month since his last heat, that left only Molly and one of the women in his building who had two kids from a deadbeat Alpha who took off on her years ago.

Except the address Sally recited was Mycroft’s. Lestrade bolted over the desk rather than go around it and bowled Sally over when she didn’t get out of the way in time. She bounced back to her feet and took off after him as he flew down the stairs rather than wait in the elevator.

“Your Sub?” She called, practically skimming the stairs to keep up with him.

“Yeah!”

“But it’s only been a month!”

“Erratic heats, he said,” Lestrade shouted over his shoulder as he jumped in the car, nearly leaving Sally behind in his haste.

“Guess you’ll be missing more work,” She panted, trying to catch her air.

“Gonna fire my ass, they are.”

“Worth it?”

“Fuck, yes.”

They got to the house and three constables had to hold Lestrade off from tearing the two Alpha joggers out of the panda wagon to beat them senseless. They were frantic and humping the seats and even groping each other. A Beta diverted Lestrade to the house where he could _smell_ Mycroft’s heat from the street. He bolted through the door, as Dimmock shouted at another constable to separate the Alpha’s in the car before they killed each other.

Up the stairs he shot, snarling at anyone he saw despite the fact that every Alpha in the building was wearing a mask to prevent them from going feral at the scent permeating the air. He got to Mycroft’s hall bathroom, where the man had apparently barricaded himself in, and paused for a moment to digest what he was yelling through the door.

“Damn you, get out of my house! Send Gregory Lestrade, he works in homicide! Lestrade is my Dom and I have every right to request someone specific! I will not open this door for any strutting Alpha with a hard on and a superiority complex! Do you hear me? FETCH MY DOM NOW!”

“You’re Dom’ing _him_?” A PC asked as he approached the door. Lestrade snarled at him and the man backed off fast. He couldn’t open the door or even attempt consoling Mycroft while they were there, he started shoving at them, determined to get all the Alpha’s out of the area immediately.

“Out, all of you!” Sally called from the top of the stairs, her face covered by a hormone mask, “His Alpha’s here, no need to stand around and stare. Nothing to see. Out! Before I Dom you short-dicks.”

Crude but effective, the crowd of rubber-necker’s and Sally took off and Lestrade went to the door, sniffing at the crack hungrily. An Omega’s safety word stopped working when they were in heat, leaving them defenseless against Alpha’s; it was the one reason the antiquated law against prosecuting Alpha’s for raping Omega’s in heat still existed. In the eyes of the law, Omega’s couldn’t refuse sex during heat because they _needed it_ , so if an Omega was stupid enough to be outside and unbonded - as Mycroft was – during a heat cycle, then any Alpha who mounted them was doing them a service. It was often referred to as the Final Prejudiced Law because all other horrifying Omega-degrading laws had been overturned. Omega’s were the minority of the population and no Alpha in their right mind would vote to overthrow a law that saved them from gaol time when they were out of their mind drunk on Omega hormones. Consent literally could not be established- for either party.

Which was why Mycroft was so frantic and everyone at the department were so nervous about bringing Lestrade in. It was one thing to haul off some offending Alpha’s the Omega had rejected and legitimately escaped from before locating and providing their boy/girlfriend, it was another thing to bring in an Alpha that the Omega _had publicly rejected as a bondmate_. Even in his dazed state Lestrade could see ‘law suit’ written all over that situation.

“My, open the door,” Lestrade growled, running his fingernails down the sturdy wood. The lock and hinges on the door were solid brass, but that hadn’t stopped the Alpha’s from trying to break the door down. They’d done a fair bit of damage, but Mycroft hadn’t been reached. The sound of furniture scraping against tile explained part of that.

The door flew open and a naked and drenched Mycroft Holmes flew into Lestrade’s arms, panting and trying to scale his body. Lestrade’s pants were literally torn open – he wasn’t sure by whom – and then they were sprawled on the floor with Mycroft riding him like an American bull rider. Scratching and snarling filled the air as they rolled about, Mycroft becoming forceful in his need and upsetting the Dominant half of Lestrade. Finally they ended up on their sides, with Lestrade’s knot buried deep in Mycroft’s body, and Lestrade’s hand coming down on his arse fast and hard. Mycroft was sobbing in relief and pain, his leg and one arm clutching his Dom close. Minds drifted into subspace and domspace and Lestrade only vaguely recalled dragging Mycroft to the safety of his bedroom lest any other enterprising Alpha’s arrive.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Mycroft came about his first instinct was to call Anthea and find out what he’d missed. She had likely figured out what was going on herself, so she would have been fielding his calls and making his excuses for the last three or so days. After a quick trip to the bathroom he threw on a robe, leaving a peacefully snoring Gregory in his bed, and headed down to the kitchen for some food. He was halfway through making a sandwich when he realized he wasn’t really that hungry. Odd. He should be famished.

“Good day, Anthea, what atrocities has my absence caused this time?” Mycroft sighed into the phone.

“Sir?” Anthea sounded completely confused.

“My absence, my dear, for the last however many days it’s been?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir, I spoke to you just this morning. You were scheduled to leave the London airport today on a flight to Bombay at 1600 hours. Did you miss your flight? Are you feeling alright?”

“I…” Mycroft removed the phone from his ear; heart pounding so hard it ached, and glanced at the date on his phone. It was the same day. He’d only gone on heat for… five hours?”

“My? What’s going on?” It was Gregory speaking, his voice cracking with fear, and Mycroft turned to give him a horrified look.

“I’ll call you back, Anthea.”

“Did someone hurt you? Threaten you?” Gregory wasn’t coming closer; his face was a mixture of frightened, hurt, and hopeful.

“No nothing of the sort,” Mycroft replied, trying to convey his confusion, but Gregory cut him off.

“Mock heat! You had a Mock Heat! It’s the same fucking day!” Gregory wasn’t angry, he was devastated; he looked like he might cry. “We’ve been working so hard. I thought we were working out, I thought… who is it? Was it one of the Alpha’s they took out of here? Who am I poaching on, My? At least tell me that!”

“No one! Gregory I swear to you there’s no one else! I have no idea why this happened, I honestly don’t!”

A Mock Heat, lasting less than a day, meant something had triggered Mycroft to draw in a mate; either his life had been threatened until his body responded by demanding an Alpha’s help, or he had finally met his Perfect Match and his body had thrown him into heat to draw that Alpha in.

“You had a _Mock Heat_ , My, that doesn’t just happen! And a month after your last heat? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, Gregory, I swear to you I’m as confused as you are.” Mycroft dropped to his knees, wringing his hands. Why did everything keep going _wrong_? When he was with Gregory he was happy, happier than he had ever been in his life, but something kept conspiring to keep them apart.

“Okay… okay… let’s just… sit down and we’ll work this out,” Gregory replied, taking deep breaths and pulling out a stool from beneath the kitchen counter.

Mycroft abandoned his unwanted food and joined Gregory, sitting close enough for their knees to touch, but Gregory drew his away. Mycroft stroked his collar, hoping to draw Gregory’s eyes in, but the man was avoiding looking at him.

“Your happiness is everything to me, My. I’m not going to fight this. I’ll help you through it. Let’s just go through your day and we’ll figure out who triggered the mock heat. Tell me about your day, beginning to end.”

Mycroft dove in, glad to be given something to do, but there wasn’t much to tell; he’d mostly had contact with Anthea and his Beta driver. All of his assistants at the office were also Beta’s, he didn’t keep Alpha workers because his suppressants had never properly kept his heats away and he didn’t want to deal with the lustful stares. He’d met with one Omega businesswoman, and hadn’t even bumped into an Alpha on the street on his way into his home to pack for his trip.

“You see, Gregory, none of them could have triggered this. Clearly we’re looking in the wrong direction.”

Gregory, however, only looked more upset than before. He excused himself and headed into the hall to make a call while Mycroft sat on his stool and felt three inches tall.

“I’ve called the station, My. Those two Alpha’s have already been released, but we’ll find them again. One of the PC’s got their names. We’ll get your Perfect Match to you as quickly as possible.”

“Gregory, I do not have a Perfect Match! They showed up _after_ my mock heat started. They were not the cause!”

_How can this be happening? The only non-beta I saw today was that Omega… wait! That’s it!_

“My, I appreciate this, I do, but I won’t have you getting sick and dying because you tried to stay with me. I love you, and I want you to be happy; no matter what. I’ll get over it eventually, and in the mean time I’m still your friend. I want what’s…”

“ _Will you shut up?_ I was exposed to an Omega today who mentioned she was close to estrus. _That’s_ what caused it! It was a _sympathetic_ heat, not a mock heat.”

Gregory looked hopeful, his face lighting up with giddy relief, and Mycroft crossed the floor to press himself into the Alpha’s open arms. He felt awful for lying to Gregory, but it was what he had to do to keep the man from trying to fob him off on some other Alpha. He just hoped Gregory never found out that sympathetic heats were a myth.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Exactly 28 days later Mycroft went on mock heat again, but this time he was in India when it happened. He awoke in the hospital, his lower half in agony and his back on fire, with a Beta nurse gently explaining that she could fetch him a Dom or anti-subdrop medication at any time. She had pictures with her and spread them out on a rollaway table to show him. She wanted him to point to the first picture that caught his eye. Mycroft was completely confused, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“I don’t recognize any of these people.” Mycroft snapped irritably, “I require painkillers. Urgently.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes.”

The nurse hurried out and a detective hurried in.

“Mr. Holmes, I’ve been briefed by your secretary as to your high position in your government, and I am aware that you suffered a mock heat not long ago. I want you to know that we are going to do everything in our power to stop whoever is threatening you.”

“No one is threatening me. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I see, are you sure about the pictures?”

“Yes! I don’t know these men! Who are they? Spies? Drug runners?”

Mycroft moved them about nervously. Something wasn’t clicking and the pain in his body was distracting him from thinking.

“They’re the Alpha’s who serviced you during your mock heat,” The detective replied.

Mycroft pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned, staring in horror at the six smiling faces before him, five male and one female. They were the faces of people who had been inside of him, invading his body during a moment of weakness. Had he blocked it out? Or had this heat been more intense than the last one. Six people, no wonder he was in pain! No wonder his mind refused to recognize what had happened to him and why he was hurting. He probably had PTSD!

“I want my Dom. Now.”

“Excellent, Sir, and which one would that be?” The detective leaned forward, smiling just like those damn pictures. All of those Alpha’s thought they might be his Perfect Match and that his mock heat had gone off to lure one of them in. They were waiting for him to choose one of them like a bloody _date show_.

“None of them. My Dom is in London. Fetch him at once. Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft pointed to his collar and the recently engraved name upon it.

“Sir… you’re unbonded. He may have given you a collar, but clearly one of _these_ Alpha’s…”

“ANTHEA!!”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A specialist. Gregory had found him a specialist in Omega breeding. Apparently recommended by John who knew of him through a friend from Uni. The fellow was going to help them stop the mock heats and get Mycroft’s body straightened out. Gregory had flown in on a private flight- Anthea had bought the ticket and made sure he knew the urgency- and he was standing by Mycroft’s bedside petting his hand lovingly and telling him a specialist was going to help them. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t crying. He was patient and loving and perfect.

“It’s not your fault, love.”

“I don’t want John or Sherlock knowing about this, you didn’t tell them, did you?”

“Not a word. I just said your suppressants were being a bitch.”

“They made me _meet_ them, Gregory. Those _things_ raped me and they paraded them in here, bearing _gifts_ , to introduce us and try to convince me to bond with one of them. Anthea couldn’t stop it. I haven’t got the right, they said. No right to refuse a chance at bonding. I haven’t got the _right_.”

“Laws in England are gentler, My. We’ll go home in two hours and you’ll never see those bastards again.”

Gregory had pulled his hand from Mycroft’s and gripped the rail of the hospital bed. He was tired, his eyes sporting dark circles, and angry as hell at the Alpha’s who had done this. He didn’t blame Mycroft. He had told him that many times.

“I have to get tested for _diseases,_ Gregory. I’ve never had unprotected sex in my life until now, not with anyone except you. This isn’t _fair_.”

He half expected Gregory to laugh and mock him for sounding so childish, the way his father would have.

_Omega’s don’t get rights, son, Omega’s get bred._

Gregory didn’t laugh. Gregory asked Mycroft if he was comfortable being hugged and then held him tightly while they both held back tears until Anthea told them their car had arrived to take them to the airport. Mycroft was on an extended leave of absence until they could locate the problem with his hormones that was causing this very _dangerous_ fluctuation.

XXXXXXXXXX

The specialist told Gregory there was no such thing as a sympathetic heat, but Gregory only looked sad and didn’t question Mycroft closely, so he didn’t have to admit he’d lied. Instead the specialist put Mycroft through dozens of tests, everything from physical exams to psychological. He held up flash cards of sexual scenarios and pressed scents beneath his nose and tried to get the heat to re-occur. Nothing triggered it. Mycroft was confined to his home and the specialist’s office, going back and forth between like a man dragged from gaol to court and back again. He was going mad. Then it happened again.

Exactly 28 days after his second mock heat, Mycroft had a third. They were in the car on their way to the specialist for yet another visit, Gregory using up the last of his personal time, when Mycroft suddenly flushed hot and became drenched in sweat and his body’s own natural lubricant. Everything was blurry after that, but when he came around he was in the specialists office and the man was calmly explaining to Gregory what he thought was occurring while pressing a glass of water into Mycroft’s hand.

“You’re the trigger, you see. He needs to bond with you.” The specialist informed Gregory.

“I’m his Perfect Match?” Gregory asked, eyes starry.

“Apparently, though this is an unusual manifestation. Usually the couples bond after the first time so there is no reason for the mock heats to repeatedly occur.”

“We’ve had sex before and then gone _years_ without even speaking to each other, it doesn’t make sense.” Mycroft argued, pushing himself upright.

“It’s the only explanation,” The doctor replied, blinking owlishly, “You two are…”

“Incompatible! We’ve only been getting on so far because we’ve _had_ to because I’m dependent on him! I don’t want to spend the rest of my _life_ like that!”

Gregory flinched, then reached out a hand to console Mycroft, but he slapped it away angrily.

“The mock heats will stop if you two bond. I’m almost certain of it,” The doctor stammered, looking like she was about to call security as she glanced back and forth between them. Omega’s weren’t supposed to be slapping their Dom’s hands away and arguing against bonding.

“However, you are not _certain_ , are you? I have absolutely no intention of turning my life on its ear on your _theory_. Surely one of your colleagues can provide us with an alternative. I will be happy to undergo hormonal treatments.”

“I doubt they’d work at your age, your body is fighting off the suppressants because it knows a potential mate – no, your _perfect_ mate - is nearby and it is demanding you get pregnant before you get too old and start estruspause.”

“Are you saying there’s a chance I was _fertile_ on these mock heats?!” Mycroft was on his feet in an instant, horrified and feeling slightly sick. He regretted it instantly and Lestrade had to grab his arm and help him sit again as he swayed and groaned.

“Easy, My, this is going to be fine. We talked about this before, yeah? That our little dalliances wouldn’t be enough eventually? Well, now they aren’t. We’ll bond, and I promise you I’m not going to stifle you, interfere in your job, or force you to Sub for me on a daily basis. Life won’t change much. We don’t even have to move in together right away. We’ll take it nice and slow.”

“Do. Not. Alphanize. Me!” Mycroft growled, pushing Gregory’s placating hands away. “I am a grown man, Gregory, not some simpering Omega clinging to her Alpha’s coattails! I have a _life_. I have a _reputation._ I have goals and aspirations that do not include being barefoot and pregnant at forty-six!”

“We’ll find a way to avoid the pregnancy…”

“You’re assuming I’m not already pregnant! Damn it all to hell, I don’t need this shit!”

Mycroft tried to get to his feet again, but became dizzy and ended up falling back again.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with me?”

“You are dehydrated,” the specialist explained, “A body isn’t meant to go on mock heats so often. You didn’t have time to prep your body with fluids the way you would an ordinary heat. Here, have some water and I’ll call in someone to insert an IV drip.”

The doctor stepped out and Mycroft and Greg fell into an awkward silence.

“My…”

“Don’t.”

“ _My_ …”

“No! I’ve told you before I don’t want to bond. Ever. This isn’t happening, Gregory.”

The specialist stepped back in, then looked concerned and hurried back out, but the door was left cracked and there was no doubt the privacy was only an illusion.

“My, think about this. Think about what happened during your first two mock heats. You had to lock yourself up and demand me, they wouldn’t have fetched me if I hadn’t been a bloody detective, you know that right? They’d have just shooed away the Alpha’s you reported and left you there to be found by another one, figuring an unbonded Omega needed a good fuck and you’d be happier with the next Alpha who came around.”

Mycroft felt the blood drain from his face.

“Don’t.”

“Then there was India, my god, Mycroft, they paraded your-”

“Stop!” Mycroft was shaking and he couldn’t _stop_ it. Didn’t Gregory realize what this was doing to him? He just needed time!

“- _rapists_ past your bed like you were a bloody smorgasbord-“

“I said STOP!”

“-which never would have happened if you’d had a bondmark on your neck-“

“UMBRELLA!”

Mycroft couldn’t even enjoy the satisfaction of watching Gregory gag and choke, tears running down his face as he rushed to a window to throw it open and let out the stink of Mycroft’s noxious pheromone cocktail. He was too busy trying to get his collar off.

“Your safety word, My? You’re that hung up on not bonding to me? _Why_? I’ve tried to be understanding, supportive, giving, and…”

“Get out,” Mycroft tugged his collar off and threw it at Gregory’s chest.

“Mycroft!” Gregory caught it, abandoning his tortured nose in favor of clutching the collar he’d chosen tightly in both hands. The tears didn’t look like they were from the stench anymore.

“Get out or I’ll say it again. You want another dose?”

Gregory fled. Mycroft wept. He didn’t care that the specialist overheard. He accepted an IV and discussed the potential problems with denying the bond instead.

“You’re already upset, this is only going to get worse,” the specialist argued gently, “you will both become depressed and start feeling as though you’re missing something. You’ll be unable to perform the job you’re saying is so important. It will be stifling.”

“You still aren’t even certain we’re a Perfect Match. I’ve known him for years and never had a reaction like this. I didn’t have a mock heat when wemet. None of this points to him being my Match. There’s something wrong with my hormones, that’s all. You’re just too incompetent to figure it out!”

“I’ll refer you to another specialist, if you want. Perhaps a neurologist? Hormones begin in the brain, after all.” The specialist looked more sad than insulted, as though she _pitied_ him.

“Yes, fine, do that.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade took a cab home because he knew he’d get kicked off the tube, and probably roughed up quite a bit, if he got on smelling of Omega rejection. He staggered into his apartment and into the shower, stripping off his clothes after they were already sopping wet. He scrubbed himself down, sobbing and rocking as he kneeled on the floor of the tub. Finally he dragged himself out and let out a strangled cry as he realized he’d had the collar clutched in his hand the entire time. Frantic, he ignored his own state of soaked and cold in favor of carefully drying it. He dug out an old hair dryer Cheryl had left behind, set it on cold, and did everything in his power to make sure the collar and padding were perfectly dry. He pulled out the leather treatment he’d been using on it regularly before he’d given it to Mycroft and gently buffed it with the soft cloth covered with leather crème. Once he was certain the beautiful collar was in perfect condition again he finally faced himself in the mirror.

He was gaunt and exhausted from all the stress (and frantic mock-heat-sex) the last few months. He’d lost at least five stone. His eyes had a distant, haunted, betrayed look to them, and he hardly recognized them, especially since they were set in a face that was completely twisted with pain.

Lestrade raised the collar up, admiring it in the mirror, and then buckled it to his own neck.

It was two full days before anyone came looking for him. His Omega packmate across the hall let Sally in with a key she kept for emergencies. Gregory had curled up in a blanket on a few couch cushions that he’d tossed onto the floor. He was whimpering his packmate’s names softly, lost and confused as to why they hadn’t come to take care of him already.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Greg? Sir? What’s happened?” Sally babbled, tugging at his arm and trying to see how bad a state he was in.

“Is that a _collar_ around his neck?” Lily, his neighbor and packmate asked.

“Shit, that’s his Sub’s collar. Mycroft must have given it back!”

“Where’s his phone. He has his whole pack marked in his contacts,” there was a pause as Lily went riffling through his house then, “It’s not working! He had it in the shower with him. These clothes stink to you?”

“Ugh, yes! Get them out of here! I’ll call a few. I know some of his pack, I’m in it myself.”

One by one his pack filtered in, Lily being joined by Molly as they petted and consoled him. Anderson made himself at home as pack Beta and brought games over from Lily’s place for her kids to play. They were old enough to know what a furpile was, but that didn’t mean they were going to stay quiet for ages while the adults acted silly. Anderson kept them in Lestrade’s bedroom in case he needed to do anything sexual with the Omegas out in the sitting room; since neither of them were bonded they were unlikely to refuse him. Doctor Katinski was finally located and he came immediately, though he left his bondmate at home. No need for more Alphas at another Alpha’s furpile. It was Omega’s and Beta’s that were needed.

Doctor Katinski slipped into the furpile, turning on his subside and asking Gregory what happened. It all poured out and the Omega’s and Katinski listened in shock.

“He doesn’t want me, not even as his Dom anymore. I pushed too hard and now he’s given my collar back. The worse part is, I can’t even fucking _off_ myself, because he needs me. I can’t leave him to deal with this alone. He’ll have another mock heat in twenty some-odd days and I can’t let him go through that alone. Even if he won’t let me near him, I have to make sure someone _safe_ takes care of him. He was _raped_ the time before last. _Gang raped._ ”

The Omega’s around Lestrade all clutched at him tighter and Katinski gently stroked his hair and praised him for being a strong enough Alpha not to foolishly kill himself because he was in topdrop.

“I called in a PELOA for us all, Sir,” Sally stated softly, “We’re ready for the long haul. Katinski brought food and tea.”

Lastrade curled in on himself and let the pain wash over him, alternating between sobbing in agony and screaming in fury. At one point he pinned Molly down and frantically rubbed against her, but he never bothered to strip her and wasn’t even aroused. He did feel better for her gentle encouragement, though, and slept soundly with his head pressed between her small breasts. His furpile lasted another day before he woke up determined to face the world.

Mycroft needed him to be strong for when he eventually fell apart like the wall he’d tried to build up between them; if it didn’t fall on it’s own then Lestrade would tear it down brick by brick like the Berlin wall.

  


[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/73661.html)

  



	7. vincentmeoblinn | Give And Take Ch 7

28 days after Mycroft gave Gregory his collar back he was on the phone, sobbing brokenly, begging the man to come over and relieve his mock heat. Gregory promised he would, but Mycroft was quickly slipping into a dissociative state.

When he woke up in hospital the first thought through his mind was _Oh, no. Not again,_ but his body wasn’t sore at all. He felt well fucked, but not violated, and he didn’t have the panicked, disoriented feeling he’d had when he’d been raped.

A nurse bustled in, and again he felt anxious, but she only smiled and handed him a note that had been unnoticed on his nearby dresser. It was from Gregory.

_Mycroft,_  
Call me whenever you want or need me. For anything. Anytime.  
Lestrade 

Mycroft took a moment to laugh at Gregory always referring to himself by his last name. He’d taunted him about it before, saying he thought it was a way to remind himself he had to carry on the family name, but Gregory had only laughed it off and said it was probably posturing.

Then he sat back and pondered Gregory’s note.

On one hand, the man was good to him, far too good. He had given Mycroft the space he needed when they’d been dating, in fact he could only count the amount of times he’d crossed the line with him on one hand despite having known him for many years. He had been _happy_ with Gregory, and that was a new and frightening thing for him. Yes, their relationship was rocky, but they had only just started investing time and effort into when the mock heats had thrown a wrench into things.

On the other hand, he had a paralyzing fear of commitment.

Mycroft sighed and put it all out of his mind for now. He had 28 days before his next damnable heat and he was going to put them to good use. He now had every 28th day scheduled as a ‘medical leave’, though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get called in anyway. He’d be unable to respond, but his fellows had no idea. This whole thing was making his life exceedingly difficult. Today his mock heat had not interrupted anything of importance, but what about next time? Or the time after that? He had not sunk into the depression the doctor had promised, but he did feel an aching loneliness on a regular bases. Would this continue? Would the mock heats spent in Gregory’s company be enough to hold off the depression? Or would he sicken and die?

He had no answers, and that left him feeling far worse than the dehydration and exhaustion.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Five days. It had only been five days this time.

Mycroft was in the middle of a meeting with 13 political representatives when his body flushed hot and his chair was instantly soaked.

_Dry cleaning bill…_ His wayward brain muttered as he reached behind him and tugged at Anthea’s sleeve in desperation. The room was full of Omega’s and Beta’s, so none of them would notice right away; Alpha’s were more in tune with that scent.

“Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I’m afraid we’re going to need to call a recess.”

There were a few sympathetic murmurs and Mycroft was led away to a fainting room where he happily collapsed onto the settee, tugging his pants off as he went. There were towels discreetly packed away and Anthea layered them beneath him to absorb the mess as he tugged at his cock and whimpered in pain. Anthea fisted him gently, which always made him furious. An Alpha would have known that he needed it hard and fast, but Anthea was a beta female, had no penis _at all_ and Dom’d him so gently it would make John look violent in comparison. He thrust himself down on her fist, stroked his member with one hand, and bit the other to stifle his cries as he came again and again. Eventually, as he had in the previous mock heats, his brain simply shut off.

He awoke in the same fainting room with a very annoyed head of state standing nearby demanding an explanation of Anthea. Apparently Mycroft had been shouting for Gregory and the man was alarmed that he was being neglected.

“If he can’t even take care of himself properly, how are we to trust him with our _people_.”

“I assure you, he is only experiencing a mild hormonal fluctuation. His Alpha is away. I take care of him when these sorts of things crop up. He is in perfect health otherwise.”

“He looks a mess, and I’ve heard rumors of the trips to hospital and specialists…”

“Rumors are often just that, Sir, I suggest you not put too much stock in them,” Mycroft stated, hoping he’d pulled off looking stately despite his disheveled state.

“Countries rise and fall on rumors, Mr. Holmes. Take care that yours is not in the latter category. If you want to retain the respect of your confederates, at the very least keep an Alpha on your staff to care for your needs in a more fulfilling manor. You were driving the security mad.”

“Apologies, Mr. Moftiss, it won’t happen again. I will be taking steps to correct this issue tonight.”

“See that you do.”

**To: Gregory Lestrade  
I need you. **

**To: Mycroft Holmes  
Where?**

**To: Gregory Lestrade  
My place at your earliest convenience. **

Gregory was wearing his collar. It was the first thought that crossed his mind when he walked up to his own front stoop to find the man standing on it looking tired and sad. He was wearing a Submissive’s collar, in broad daylight, on the outside of his clothing. Had he no _shame_?

Of course he didn’t, because Gregory didn’t think it was anything to be ashamed _about_. He probably thought he was being poetic and valiant by wearing Mycroft’s discarded collar. Oddly enough, Mycroft found himself feeling jealous of the man. It was as though he had given it to someone else. What statement was he making? _I’m keeping it warm for you. I don’t need a Sub that only calls me for a quick shag. I’m ready to submit to_ you _if it means having you._

No. Surely not that last one. Neither of them would want it anyway. Mycroft was certainly _not_ a Switch, and Gregory had already had experience pretending to Sub and hated it.

Mycroft showed Gregory into the house and took him to the very room this entire fiasco had started in. Gregory took his same seat by the fire and stared into it as though it contained the answers to life.

“I was married,” Gregory informed him quietly.

“Sorry? Are congratulations in order?” Mycroft asked, fumbling and spilling the drink he’d been pouring as a sense of horror welled up inside of him.

“When we first met, I was married. I spoke to some specialists from… oh, every branch of medicine and psychology. My being bonded would have stopped our urges from coming forward. We wouldn’t have recognized each other as a Perfect Match until after I divorced Cheryl, which didn’t happen until the combination of grief over Sherlock faking his death, my wife kicking me out _again_ , and you coming on to me caused my scent to change. Then we had sex right away after, so a mock heat wasn’t needed. That’s why your suppressants stopped working after the first time we had sex. Your body couldn’t figure out why you weren’t bonding so it started fighting you.”

“I see,” Mycroft replied, but he’d already gotten that same answer. No need to tell Gregory he’d wasted his time, though.

“What did you need tonight? A scene?”

Instead of answering Mycroft abandoned his attempts to pour a drink and headed over to where Lestrade sat. He slipped into his lap and loosened his tie. Lestrade looked up at him morosely, but didn’t stop him from unbuttoning his shirt and removing the beautiful leather collar Mycroft had thrown back in his face. Then Mycroft undid his own shirt and tie.

Lestrade surveyed Mycroft’s neck with no small amount of longing and sadness, and then repeated his question.

“What did you need tonight, Mycroft?”

“Just this,” Mycroft replied, then leaned forward, extended his teeth, and sunk them into the apex of Gregory’s neck and shoulder. Blood flooded his mouth and he whimpered at the feel of it. His own neck was bare, but Gregory didn’t touch him. Would he be rejected again?

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade was frozen. He could feel the pain of the bonding mark, and he could feel his body responding as blood flooded his cock and his mind screamed in bliss, but he was stuck in place in a whirlwind of misery. Mycroft had initiated bonding, which was what Lestrade had wanted to happen when he’d come here that night, but it all felt so forced. Finally, he turned his head and sank his own aching canines into Mycroft’s throat, working the mark in deeply.

When they separated Mycroft’s face was flushed, his eyes glazed, and he was panting with longing. His erection prodded Lestrade’s abdomen, and he had no trouble reaching between them, undoing the man’s trousers, and fisting it quickly. Mycroft came after only a few quick tugs, a startled, strangled cry sounding from his hoarse throat. He quickly fell into a second orgasm, his body almost desperate for Lestrade’s touch.

Lestrade thought he knew what had happened. Mycroft smelled of sex, especially with his trousers open, but not of an Alpha. He smelled of that Beta woman, Anthea. My had experienced another mock heat only five days from the last. He’d given in, not because he loved Lestrade, but because he couldn’t survive like this.

_At least he wasn’t raped this time_.

It only soothed his misery a bit.

Mycroft had slumped against him, sated and limp, breathing in their mingled scents with a contented sigh. He hadn’t even noticed Gregory was unfulfilled, but that was probably because he’d wilted like a flower in the desert.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Their relationship was stagnant. Lestrade came over regularly for scenes and Mycroft’s mock heats seemed to have stopped, but otherwise they rarely spoke and never cuddled outside of aftercare. John and Sherlock came home with a bouncing baby boy and no mass murderer, which Lestrade found no interest in questioning. No one outside of their pack really knew about John’s involvement with Moran after the bastard had dropped him off on 221B’s stoop covered in blood. Lestrade was perfectly content with not knowing, and Mycroft had arranged a few ‘Moran sightings’ to cover up the fact that there was a serial killer missing. Lestrade happily chased after the red herrings and ignored the obvious truth.

Finally John called him up one night, fed up with Sherlock’s bullshit, and they went out for a much needed round of drinks.

“He refused to say it. Ordered me to clean the fucking kitchen. I’ve got bruises on my knees I was scrubbing the goddamn floor so long.”

“That’s a bit hot, that is.”

“Shut it, you. You’re a married man.”

“Noticed that, did you? Fat lot it does me. He calls me over for sex and I come to heel like a good little Sub. He should let me wear his collar again, I think it suited me better.”

“Bloody hell, we’re a pair, aren’t we? I thought he was your Perfect Match? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“You and me, we should corner them and make them say it,” Lestrade snarled angrily, “I’ll tie them up and beat it out of them.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t take that well,” John reminded.

“Fine then, I’ll beat it out of Mycroft and you’ll suck it out of Sherlock.”

John blinked then burst out laughing, “You know that might actually work?”

“Damn, listen to us. Sitting here wanting to hear ‘I love you’ like a bunch of fucking needy Omegas. Next thing you know we’ll be on our hands and knees begging for a cock, too.” Lestrade ranted, a bit too loudly. An Omega woman down the bar scowled at them and left to look for less offensive company.

“It’s a bit dumb, isn’t it? I mean: we live together, he’s raising my kid, we’re friends, we’re bonded… why the fuck do I care? They’re just _words_.”

“Because you’re like me, you don’t think he does.”

“I’m almost sure he doesn’t sometimes. I think I’m just a habit of his. He likes me around because I compliment him and do his wash.”

Lestrade slapped his back companionably and was about to order something a bit stronger when John had an idea.

“Let’s make them say it. Let’s go Omega on them and get them to do it back. Roll reversal. It’ll be therapeutic.”

“You’ve been in therapy too long, mate.”

“I’m serious! Here… this is what I’m thinking we do.”

John explained his idea and Lestrade sat there, snickering at him until it finally sunk in.

XXXXXXXXX

John slipped a handful of vials into Lestrade’s palm and muttered instructions. Lestrade teased him a bit, kissed him for luck, and staggered off to put his plan in action. He needed to sleep off his buzz before he could confront Mycroft, and he needed to find him at home and receptive. Lestrade got home and stored his stash before calling Mycroft to tell him how beautiful he was.

“You’re drunk, Gregory. Go to sleep.”

“I need you.”

“Are you in topdrop?”

“No.”

“Then you can wait until tomorrow when you’re sober.”

“All night?”

“Yes, certainly.” 

“I love you.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft hung up on him, but Lestrade wasn’t daunted. He had a mission, and that gave him direction for a change. He was going to pull himself out of this funk he was in and win his Omega Sub over once and for all. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

Gregory was acting strange the moment he stepped through the door. He also smelled strange. He smelled like an _Omega_. 

“Gregory have you… have you _been_ with someone?” Mycroft asked, his heart plummeting somewhere around his knees.

“Nope, I’ve got oil on me. Remember that Omega-in-heat oil we used once?” Gregory must have remembered it fondly, because he was tugging Mycroft against himself and breathing in his scent as though he needed it to live.

“Yes, but you seem to have gotten a bad batch this time,” Mycroft replied, feeling just a tad uncomfortable with his odd smelling Alpha, “And you seem to have bathed in it.”

“Nope, this is Omega-in-distress.” 

“I see, that would explain your behavior and the fact I feel like comforting you.”

“We’re going to spend the night like Omega’s.”

“I’m not _gay,_ Gregory, I’d have thought my obsession with your sizable cock illustrated that clearly.”

“I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to be your Sub tonight.”

“Again, I have no interest in that. Perhaps a shower?”

“You’ll have lots of interest by the time I’m done,” Gregory stated firmly, and then scooped him up into a bridal carry, “But a bath does sound worthwhile.”

Mycroft had never been bathed before, not even as a part of aftercare. Gregory’s Alpha-induced hypersensitivity to Mycroft’s needs was a bit unnerving at first, but after he’d been gently scrubbed down in the bath he was carried into the bedroom where he was lovingly dried off and then pressed into the mattress. Mycroft was expecting the most dull and unsatisfying sex of his life to follow, but instead felt oil-slicked hands caressing his shoulders. After a moment they pressed firmly into the muscle and Mycroft moaned in approval.

Gregory was giving him a _massage_? His Alpha instincts must have been completely confused by what appeared to be a distraught Omega somewhere in the area, and an Omega that was clearly unharmed and safe in front of him. He was compensating by comforting his own Omega to keep him from subdrop. Gregory was likely using his own awareness of the situation to manipulate it a bit, though his instincts might be stopping him from doing exactly what he wanted.

_This could be a fantastic evening._ Mycroft thought a bit greedily.

Soon the pampering reached whole new levels as Gregory made him dinner, kneeled at his feet, fed him the dinner while staring lovingly at him the entire time, gently _wiped his mouth_ for him, and then carried him to the drawing room where he was made comfortable with a soft blanket and brought a sherry. Gregory kneeled at his feet again, head in lap, and asked to hear about his day. It was a few minutes into Mycroft’s rather truncated explanation that he noticed Gregory was trembling a bit. He glanced down when he heard the man sniffle.

“Oh, honestly, Gregory, just go wash the stuff off. You’ve made your point, there’s no need to _torture_ yourself!”

“I’m not feeling tortured, My. I’m loving this. You’re so beautiful when you’re relaxed. We should do this more often.”

“You hate submitting.”

“I hated submitting to Cheryl, but that was during sex. As hot and bothered as this oil is making me, we still haven’t had sex, and you’ve already said you wouldn’t be interested in tying me up and paddling me.”

“The very idea revolts me.”

“Then we’re fine, because while I’d happily endure pain for you, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.”

“You still haven’t explained why you’re crying in my lap.”

“Happy tears, Mycroft. Haven’t you ever cried happy tears before?”

“I’ve rarely cried the normal kind, so no, I have never cried ‘happy tears’. Are those even real? Honestly, Gregory, this has gone on long enough.”

Mycroft made to stand, but Gregory pressed him back down again, gently kissing him as he did so.

“I’m going to spend the rest of the night cherishing you like the brilliant, beautiful, stained glass window you are until you let the light shine through, Mycroft Holmes, because the day you cry happy tears is the day I’ll have finally gotten through to you that I love you and am not going anywhere.”

Mycroft felt pinned to that chair like a butterfly to a collector’s board, but a peer into Gregory’s eyes revealed no predatory glance. The man was utterly sincere, and his moist eyed gaze of love and devotion made Mycroft think it had little to do with the chemicals he was breathing in off of his own person.

The night continued with a movie and a cuddle, followed by more of him being carried around, and ended with the slow, sensual lovemaking Mycroft had been dreading earlier.

Gregory laid him down in the bed and covered his body with kisses and caresses, whispering little tidbits about what he admired about the man and how beautiful he thought he was. He slid is tongue into the slit of Mycroft’s penis, lathing it gently while looking up into his eyes. Mycroft was instantly on edge, not being familiar with sex that included any kind of eye contact. Gregory swallowed him down, still keeping their eyes locked, and he panted out his orgasm with a soft cry of surprise.

Gregory climbed up his body, nipping and kissing as he did so, before pressing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth so the aristocrat could taste himself. The both moaned at the intimacy and Mycroft moved to return the favor (though he could never swallow Gregory like that) but the man tutted softly and pushed him back down again. Once more Mycroft was covered in caresses, but these quickly moved internal as Gregory prepared him with intimate precision. Gone was the man who did a perfunctory stretching – Gregory was exploring his insides as though he wanted to later paint them on canvas and must first know every fold and soft ripple. Hell, with how sappy he was being, perhaps he would. An exploring tongue was added to the mix as Gregory gently stimulated the outside of his pucker, working his way around his fingers and flexing erotically against his perineum. He then sucked on Mycrofts bullocks one at a time, whispering how he loved his entirely hairless Omega body.

Mycroft was a sobbing mess by the time Gregory slid himself gently inside of him, taking the time to press kisses to his face, neck, and lips as he began a gentle slide out again. Gregory’s fingers stimulated his nipples, always one of his higher erogenous zones, and fondled his bits until the man was crying out another orgasm.

Then he held perfectly still, and Mycroft wondered if he’d somehow missed the knotting and Gregory’s orgasm, but that was impossible. But no, when Mycroft opened his eyes and glanced curiously upward, it was to see Gregory’s intense gaze piercing him once again. He tried to turn his head away, but Gregory gently turned it back.

“Look at me, My. See how I feel about you? Is it written on my face? My words aren’t enough… is this? Do you see how I love you now? How much I need you? The way I breathe in your scent and do everything I can to memorize every feature on your face? Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“I… I’m beginning to see,” Mycroft admitted, his throat tight and voice strained.

“Then this is just a start.”

Gregory moved then, picking up speed and changing the angle so he could drive himself into Mycroft’s body at the most pleasurable angles. Mycroft was back to sobbing again, chanting his bondmate’s name over and again in near desperation. Finally he was knotted, but Gregory seemed to be holding himself back, and that was completely unacceptable!

“Gregory! Please! I need you! Please! Gregory! Gregory! Oh, god, come inside me, please!”

“Not yet, my love.”

“Yes! Now! I need… I need…”

“I love you, Mycroft.”

“Oh, god, I love you, too! Gregory! Please! I want you! Please come with me! I’m close! I’m…!”

Mycroft came with a scream and Gregory gasped, his body practically convulsing as orgasm after denied orgasm rolled through his body. Mycroft had toyed with orgasm denial before, though not typically with holding it off through strength of will, and he was well aware of the explosive effects. Gregory was clearly not, as he bucked helplessly in Mycroft’s arms, sobbing out his pleasure over and over again.

“Oh, god it feels so good it _hurts_!” Gregory cried out, his body grinding into Mycroft in search of relief.

“Yes, love, yes, just a bit more.” Mycroft gently reached down and stroked Gregory’s perineum, stimulating his prostate externally, and the man’s limbs turned to jelly as he lay stretched across him, sobbing and twitching.

“Oh, god, My. Mycroft. Ohmygod.”

“Yes, love, yes.” Mycroft trembled, utterly humbled by Gregory’s passion. They lay wrapped around each other for far longer than it took for Gregory’s knot to soften. When Mycroft slipped out of bed in the morning to shower and hurry off to work, it was with no small amount of longing for the night to have continued just a few hours longer.

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/73887.html)   



	8. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 8

“That’s the last of it,” Gregory huffed, dropping a box onto the floor.

“Are you sure this will be enough room for you, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, glancing around the shamefully small suite that Gregory had chosen to be his wing of the house.

“More than enough, soon as I get the bed moved out. Won’t be needing that.” Gregory winked at Mycroft, who felt his cheeks warm.

It had been bliss since the night Gregory had submitted himself to Mycroft. He had never felt so free with anyone before. All he wanted was to have Gregory near him as often as possible, which of course meant moving him in. Gregory, in turn, had not stopped doting on Mycroft now that he knew the man enjoyed it, though he did it in a much more Alpha fashion. Gone were the rules about not responding to Mycroft’s submissive side. When he dropped to the ground he was praised. When he misbehaved he was punished. They had finally embraced their dynamic, and it was more freeing than anything Mycroft had ever experienced in his life.

Gregory’s room was soon emptied of the bed, and a desk, couch, and a chair were moved in. He now had a fairly large office, complete with half bath, which he could retire to. It had been stripped of all the décor and Gregory was quickly filling it up with tacky sport’s banners, gaudy knick-knacks, and a closetful of rugby gear.

Mycroft couldn’t find the words to express how grateful he was that Gregory had agreed to have an area of his own for his things. Mycroft had been distressed by the idea of Gregory’s possessions moving in, so he had suggested a room of his own for them. He would have given him a whole set of rooms, complete with full en-suite, but he had said he did not need that much.

“All right, that’s it. All unpacked. Thanks for helping, My, you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh, it was my… pleasure.”

“You’re a rotten liar for a government man,” Gregory teased, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s temple, “I’m due for a shower. Care to join me?”

Their shower led to the bed, which led to sleep, which led to Mycroft hurrying out the door the next morning without a chance to say goodbye.

XXXXXXXXX

“It seems,” Lestrade shuddered as Mycroft’s voice practically caressed his mind, “That we’ll be working together on this one.”

Lestrade turned, taking in a deep breath to brace himself for the sight of his smiling Sub. The man turned him on in ways that should be illegal, especially when he had that manipulative look on his face. It made Lestrade want to throw him down, paddle him until he was babbling nonsensically, and then fuck him raw. There was a paddle stashed in his bottom drawer along with condoms and lube, from his wild days when his wife actually gave a fuck about him. He’d forgotten it was down there. It was plastic with nasty little square plastic studs that would leave a pattern on Mycroft’s freckled arse.

“Do you need a moment?” Mycroft smirked.

“Or two, but I think we’ve got work to do.” Lestrade replied, digging his nails into his palm to ground himself. Mycroft looked entirely approving of his self-control, which had the counterproductive effect of nearly making him loose it.

“Shit,” Sally stated, Lestrade had forgotten she’d been in his office discussing cases when Mycroft had walked in and interrupted his perusal of the file cabinet behind his desk, “Is this what I’m missing dating Betas?”

“Yes.” Mycroft and Lestrade both stated.

“Well, fuck.” Sally stated, eyebrows raised in appreciative surprise.

“Mind yer tongue in front of my Omega,” Lestrade growled, loving those words on his lips. Now it was Mycroft’s turn to shudder appreciatively. Sally grinned unrepentantly.

“As much as I love the verbal foreplay, Gregory, I’m afraid there is a most pressing matter to attend to.”

Lestrade rounded the desk and pulled out a chair, which Mycroft sank into with a look that said ‘I’m choosing to sit of my own accord’. Lestrade gave him a smirk that he hoped showed his excitement about his still not completely submissive Sub. He tapped his umbrella against the floor a few times and Lestrade recalled that ‘umbrella’ was his safe word; perhaps he carried it so he’d never have to ask for one, although using the word without the intent wouldn’t trigger the scent release it was probably unpleasant to use it in general. It was a conversation for another time.

“What can I do for you and the Queen Mother, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked after shutting the door, though he doubted they were actually in private at this point. One never really was with Mycroft Holmes.

“A case is on its way to you from Detective Inspector Dimmock, it will be easiest to wait for him to bring you the file.”

“Oh, well, tea then?” Lestrade asked, and Sally settled back, apparently thinking Mycroft would get it. Boy was she going to be pissed when Lestrade ordered her to fetch tea for a bonded Omega Sub.

“There won’t be time,” Mycroft replied, crashing that idea.

A knock at the door sounded and Dimmock walked in, looking grim.

“I need a word in private,” Dimmock said, his voice barely a whisper, he was pale and shaking a bit.

“Shut the door and you’ll have it,” Mycroft answered for Lestrade. It was credit to their healed bond that it didn’t irk him. Much.

Dimmock glanced down at him, blushed a bit, but paled again after he’d shut the door. Whatever this was, it was bad.

“You know that case I’ve been on? With that diplomat who went missing?”

“The Hauffner kidnapping, what of it?” Lestrade asked, feeling more than a bit alarmed. That was huge; media had blown it way up before MI5 could stop them from getting a hold of it. One of the press had been contacted before the kidnapping had even occurred and it had hit the news _literally_ as the poor bastard had been dragged from his home. His security team had been shot and killed in front of his Beta wife and Omega mistress, but they had happily been uninjured.

“They just found Mr. Hauffner’s body.” Dimmock said, his voice barely a whisper as he glanced aside at Mycroft, “But I guess you already knew that.”

“Shit. I didn’t. Here take my chair; I’ll stand. ”

Dimmock sank gracelessly down into Lestrade’s chair, and he moved around to stand behind Mycroft, though that was usually a Submissive’s pose when not ordered to kneel. He rubbed the man’s shoulders, knowing he had to be stressed but wouldn’t be showing it.

“Now what? Aside from the obvious fact that this has been booted to me,” Lestrade groused.

“I’m to work with you on it,” Dimmock said, and shrugged helplessly.

Dimmock held out the folder, an inch thick, and Lestrade thumbed through it, his eyebrows rising. A lot had been kept from the press, but Dimmock was still in the shit for this, and being a rather rare Alpha Switch he had already had to kick and punch his way to where he was.

“I can’t back you, you know. I’m in the soup myself for all the time off this past year and a half.”

“I know. I’ll be fine.”

Lestrade studied his pale, drawn face and took in the determined glint in his eye.

“Yeah, you will.” Lestrade agreed, “Alright, Mycroft, what don’t we know?”

“That the Beta wife was experimenting with drugs her countries scientists claimed could cause her to be capable of pregnancy.”

“That’s impossible. Beta’s are born without eggs.” Lestrade replied automatically.

“Apparently they aren’t always, some are born with eggs with a thick outer layer incapable of being fertilized, but lose them throughout life in something called a ‘menstrual cycle’. It’s apparently rather foul. Their scientists thought they could trigger those eggs to soften enough to allow sperm to penetrate them and allow some small percentage of Beta’s to become breedable, though they would never have a heat cycle.”

“If they don’t go on heat, how do they get pregnant?” Sally asked curiously.

“By taking their temperature daily they can apparently discover when they’ve ovulate,” Mycroft replied, “a bit like a mild heat cycle, but there is barely any increased urge for sexual relations and they do not put out a scent to attract their mate. They don’t even lubricate very much more than usual.”

“That’s just fucking unnatural, “Lestrade burst out, then blushed at Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, “Pardon me.”

“Quite,” Mycroft sniffed.

“So why did they grab the husband and not the wife if this is the reason?”

“Apparently the charming individuals who snatched him up were from yet another country, we believe Cuba, and they wished to check his sperm count. There is evidence on his body of e-stim practices gone wrong. They inadvertently killed him.”

“Why check him?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“He had refused to be checked. Apparently his Omega mistress has been in despair of getting pregnant for some time, despite having been checked and proven fertile. He was the obvious problem, but was holding up the research of his own country in favor of posturing due to his Alpha status.” Mycroft explained with a sneer. He’d never understand the Alpha drive to be a fertilization machine, it seemed.

“So this other country decided to take matters into their own hands and we end up with a foreign diplomat dead on our soil by a third country. Don’t we look charming with our thumbs up our arses?” Lestrade griped.

“How does an Alpha even get to that level of power?” Sally wondered.

“He was a prodigy, and had a shockingly high IQ, even by Omega standards. He was revolutionizing France, in fact. Many people loved him, to the point of near worship, and he treated all Alpha, Beta, and Omega kind as equals. He passed laws there that make England look like a tribe of cannibals in comparison,” Mycroft explained.

“Quite a loss to us all, then,” Lestrade sighed, “Was Sherlock ever brought in on this?”

“He was on his heat cycle when it started out,” Mycroft explained, “Two of my boys nearly got killed by John when they tried to go into the flat to collect them without taking a sniff or two first. John doesn’t even remember, and is thankfully a poor shot while in mid coitus.”

Lestrade chuckled. John would probably kill for Sherlock even in his sleep, let alone while trying to defend his bondmate during an estrus cycle.

“Well, let’s bring him in now, shall we?” Lestrade offered.

Sherlock was unreachable, despite Lestrade and Mycroft’s multiple texts and calls. He headed over to Baker Street while Mycroft went home since Lestrade was a better Sherlock wrangler, but 221B was also deserted so he left a note on the door before heading home for the night.

Lestrade was whistling happily as he slipped out of his car into Mycroft’s expensive heated garage. He opened the door to the (also heated) enclosed walkway that led to the house (mansion) and held up a hand to punch in the security code. It was already deactivated. Feeling a horrible sense of dread, he pulled out his service weapon, clicked the safety off, and eased the door open silently.

Five of his own officers and half of MI5 were standing just on the other side of the mud room the garage passage led into. His own folks gave him a guilty look, but MI5, some of whom Lestrade knew personally from time spent at Mycroft’s office and in his (their) home, gave him a condemning look.

“What is it? Where’s Mycroft?”

“That’s what we’d like to ask you, sir.” One of the Beta guards stated, stepping forward aggressively.

Lestrade lowered his shaking weapon, it was useless to him when he was so panicked and these men were likely better shots, and stared the man down angrily.

“What do you mean? You fuckwads are supposed to protect him!”

It spiraled downhill from there, but they had no reason to hold him once his alibi was firmly established and he fled back to Baker Street for the assistance of the one man he _knew_ could help him find his precious Omega Sub.

He pounded at the door to Baker Street for what felt like hours before Sherlock answered it, dressed in a robe and drenched in sweat.

“I. Am. Busy!”

“Mycroft’s missing. He’s been abducted.”

Sherlock paled, but barely reacted other than that.

“That’s a problem,” He stated pointlessly.

“You fucking think?!”

“You’d better come in,” Sherlock sighed in apparent exasperation.

“Do you even care?” Lestrade asked as he followed Sherlock down to 221C for some odd reason. “Your brother is missing, might be in the hands of the fuckers who killed that diplomat for all we know, and you’re just going to waltz back down to your lab and… and… fucking hell!”

They were apparently in Sherlock’s dungeon, not his lab, and Lestrade was stunned to the point his mind completely blanked and focused on the absolutely beautiful scene before him. John was suspended from the walls and ceiling of the low basement flat, his arms stretched out like wings and his legs bent at the knees and tied so his feet practically cupped his arse. He was leaning slightly backwards on, and suspended from, a weaving of silk ropes crisscrossing the room and attached to the walls, floor, and ceiling at a gentle backward tilting angle, secured there by bolts in the cement. His eyes were opening and closing lazily, glazed with pleasure, and his body was covered in a shimmering sheen of sweat. Or what you could _see_ of his body was covered in sweat, because most of his arms, torso, and thighs were covered in an explosion of colored wax, dripped in layers and flung in splashes across his body. Rivulets of dried wax ran down his arms and hung there like stalactites… or the remains of ruined colorful wings.

He looked for the entire world like a wounded butterfly captured in a spider’s web.

“How long has he been like that?”

“Oh, nearly a day. I’ve been making sure his circulation isn’t cut off and releasing his legs every now and again, so you don’t need to worry. The baby is out with Mrs. Hudson for the day, she’s running errands and the like. We needed some time to reconnect; apparently I’ve been unbearable since our heat. Nesting, you know.”

“Yeah, right, yeah, that’s fucking beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s turned out rather well all things considered,” Sherlock stated, standing back to admire his handiwork.

John growled faintly, more of a reminder for the pack Alpha not to pouch on his Omega than a threat of action. Then his eyes closed and his head sagged back onto the supportive rope behind him as Sherlock took a now re-lit candle and dripped more wax down his shoulder. The entire frame shuddered and bounced at his movement, some of the wax ‘wings’ breaking off and falling to the floor where Lestrade could see other leavings.

“I… god, I hate to interrupt this… but there’s kind of the threat to your brother’s safety?” Lestrade whispered, his mouth dry and his cock trying to show a traitorous interest.

“There’s a substantial one to John’s as well. You recall he falls into subdrop rather easily due to his deviancy? I’ll have to bring him down gently. His Alpha nature won’t let us go without finishing with a sex act, either, he’ll not let me go unsatisfied without hitting subdrop.”

“Shit, right. I’ll just… wait upstairs?”

“That would be best.”

Lestrade let himself into 221B with his emergency key and slumped down to have a quiet cry at the sheer helplessness of the situation. He didn’t let himself do so for long, Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate his Alpha going all weepy Omega on him, and was mostly composed when Mrs. Hudson pattered in with a bag in one arm and a baby in the other. He helped her with the groceries before sitting down and unloading on her. She patted his shoulder and pressed BG on him for comfort. When John and Sherlock stepped back into the room he was tired and frustrated, on the edge of hitting his own topdrop. John responded immediately, offering the comfort a pack Sub would to their Alpha, and Sherlock grudgingly helped as well, but they all new he wouldn’t be himself again until he had his Omega back.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade got the unmitigated pleasure of dealing with a cranky Sherlock Holmes who didn’t like being dragged in on the tail end of a case. Especially since his own heat cycle had been the cause of him missing the first half. He sat there, rubbing his abdomen, and snarling at all and sundry. He was probably having cramps, many Omegas did after a heat cycle, but he couldn’t take anything if there was a chance he was pregnant. If the blanket he was hugging to his chest was any indication, there was a good chance he was.

“How are we going to work with a nesting Omega?” Sally snapped from her spot leaning against the wall.

“By fetching me some tea and biscuits!” Sherlock snarled, to John’s amusement.

Lestrade tried to smirk, but it was of little use.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock, in true Holmesian fashion, had the case solved by midnight and all the men were rounded up by three in the morning. Apparently some dirt smeared on the kitchen floor of the posh sky rise flat the man and his family had been staying in had in fact come from a secondary scene. Sherlock had simply traced the flora content and landed them within a few miles of the scene of the murder. They found the e-stim machine still set up, the faulty outlet it had been plugged into, enough evidence to damn them for eternity, and the entire group of terrorists sitting around scratching their arses in an attempt to figure out how to leave the country now they’d made such a very loud entrance and bungled their stay.

Once they had the men into an MI5 holding cell Lestrade was allowed to stand on the other side of the one-way mirror and watch the interrogation as they tried to figure out what had happened to Mycroft since it seemed most logical that these men were the culprits.

They hadn’t even heard of him, and the method’s MI5 used to make sure they were being honest certainly would have had Lestrade telling the truth.

“Maybe France? We lost their man so they took one of ours?” Lestrade suggested, trying to ignore the almost whimper in his voice.

Sherlock was looking a bit haggard by now and glanced up at Lestrade with a sorrowful look on his face.

“No, Greg, they aren’t to blame, I’m afraid.”

“Then who is?” Lestrade asked, his voice cracking.

“I don’t know.”

Lestrade had once joked that he’d do a jig when one day Sherlock Holmes admitted there was something he did not know. Instead, he slid to the floor and wept.

 

·Details of The Case of the Shocked Diplomat can be found in Perfect Match Chapter 18. There is no Johnlock lovin so those of you squicked by that don’t have to worry about the ewwness. It can be read on it’s own with very little confusion.

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/74071.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 9

Lestrade had been sleeping on the couch in his ‘wing’ of Mycroft’s house for the last several nights. He still thought of it as Mycroft’s home despite the fact that legally it was his due to the bonding. He couldn’t go into the room they shared. He couldn’t face the smell of his Omega. When sleep eluded him once more he stood and wandered the house, memorizing the rooms despite the fact most of them were covered in dust cloths and clearly hadn’t been opened in years. He tried not to admit to himself that he was looking for Mycroft.

When Lestrade opened the door to a nursery he gasped in pain at what he knew he would never have, even if they did find Mycroft alive. This was the room directly beside Mycroft’s, and he saw that it connected to his through a shared closet. Lestrade had seen the door on the other side of the closet, but it had been locked when he’d tried it. He was actually surprised to find this door unlocked now that he knew where it connected. He did not go further into the closet and Mycroft’s room. He still couldn’t face it.

Lestrade wandered through the nursery, feeling absolutely dead inside, and wishing he could hang himself on the elaborate mobile over the crib. Something distracted him from thoughts of suicide, though, and it took him a moment to recognize it. His detective training was pushing at him, and he suddenly realized something was off about this nursery. Lestrade looked around a second time, this time with a critical eye. No dust. No dust and no dust clothes. This room had been cleaned, and recently. Lestrade strode over to the crib and leaned down, smelling the sheets. They smelled brand new, retaining that factory stench despite the overtones of laundry detergent indicating they’d been washed. Lestrade started pulling open drawers and cabinets, searching the small nightstand that held a teddybear shaped lamp and the nappy station. He came up with a vial of Omega scented oils.

Feeling as though his heart was tearing in two, Lestrade called the one person who he knew would understand what he was feeling. John’s mobile went to voicemail twice before his sleepy voice finally answered the phone.

“Pregnant,” Lestrade croaked, his voice cracking terribly, “Mycroft is pregnant. My Omega’s carrying my cub and I don’t know where he is.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft could tell the moment the oils he was using to disguise his scent wore off. The tiny prison he was in suddenly became suffused with a sweet odor, not unlike honeysuckle. He shivered in fear, his hands cupping his stomach, though there was very little visible change to his physical form just yet. There would be soon enough, though, and he lived in terror of when his captors realized he was pregnant. He lifted his shirt and stared down at the bruise forming on his side and stomach from when they’d kicked him repeatedly the day before. Was his child even still alive? The location was high up, it was fairly likely that the baby was unharmed, but the stress and conditions he was living in could still prove fatal for both of them.

The Mega Bitch, as he’d come to call her, walked into the bathroom that had become his prison and sneered at him. He never used their real names; as far as he was concerned they were less than human and deserved no honorable identification.

“Well, well, well, what do you know? Hey, honey! This slut is still knocked up! I thought you said he’d gotten an abortion?” Mega Bitch laughed.

“Will that help or hurt our plan?” Silly Sub asked.

“Might help. I’ll think about it a bit. For now, let’s work on getting the rest of the money transferred over.”

Mycroft was once again forced to his knees on the cold hard floor and a gun was placed on his temple, the safety clicked off and the first bullet clicked into the chamber. A box was brought in and a laptop placed down on it. He obediently logged into several top secret sights, entered government payroll codes, and started transferring money into the offshore account the Omegas had set up for this purpose. He was doing it in bits from several different locations, too small to raise any red flags, but eventually adding up to quite a bit. Since he had his hand in so many pots, he also had access to a great many piggy banks, and now these _animals_ were reaping the benefits of his precious job and he was helpless to fight back. Mycroft couldn’t be arsed to care about the potential downfall of his career. Gregory would take care of him… if he ever saw his Alpha again.

The reason he had hidden his pregnancy from Gregory with oils was because he hadn’t been sure he wanted to keep the child at all. Now that he was facing his own possible death, and therefore the death of his child, he had never wanted something so desperately as he wanted Gregory’s cub. His Omega side was screaming for Gregory in a way he had never thought himself capable of, and this child was all he had of his Alpha to comfort him. Suddenly he understood how John could be so adamantly against abortion; which was of course why he’d sought out the aid of Silly Sub instead of going to John when he’d realized he was in a family way.

“There. Done. All your money, your passports, your false ID’s, your plane tickets, and your hotel booked and paid for. When and where will you let me go?”

“In Venezuela, once we’re nice and healthy again.” Mega Bitch stated firmly. Silly Sub gave him a sad smile, waved, and shut the door behind them both.

Mycroft leaned back against the wall, feeling fear creep up on him and once again rubbing his abdomen protectively. There were vaccines that were needed, and they had only bought tickets for two; well, two and a great deal of cargo. Was he to be packed up in a box and shipped to South America? Mycroft was trying to brace himself for the inevitable moment when he lost the baby or the fight for his own life.

All he succeeded in doing was bringing himself to tears.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was trying to convince Lestrade he had it all wrong, that Mycroft hadn’t taken off with Molly to abort their child, but he was having trouble believing it. Maybe because he knew Mycroft hadn’t wanted kids and had gone to Molly because she was pro-choice. Maybe because if Mycroft wasn’t off getting an abortion, then it meant that he was really in trouble. Maybe because all that missing money and the plane tickets MI5 had found sure looked damning as hell.

“He’s got a nursery made up! Don’t you think that _says_ something?!” Sherlock ranted, but Lestrade had been numb for days. He just blinked up at him morosely and shrugged. Nesting. Pregnant Omega’s did strange things. He might do that and still want the baby gone.

“He was _forced_ to transfer that money over!” Sherlock continued, “We need to look into Molly and Harry’s lives for the last few months. Something happened between my furpile and now that changed them both irrevocably. We need to figure out what that is. It’s their motive for abducting Mycroft, and it will tell us if they’re going to leave him alive or not.”

“An entire year happened between your furpile and now,” John reminded gently. Sherlock ignored him.

“Sure. Yeah,” Lestrade sighed, “Look, MI5’s handling everything, but you can talk to Dimmock, too. He’s sort of in the loop. If you have anything you want to see inside this place, you better take a good look now. MI5 is confiscating it to pay for the money My stole.”

“They can’t confiscate it. It’s my ancestral birthplace. I inherit it after Mycroft, and so long as a breedable heir is left the property can’t fall to other hands.”

“You might want to take that up with the Queen.”

Sherlock threw up his arms in apparent disgust and stormed off. His dignified huff was rather ruined by the blanket he was dragging along behind him.

“What are you going to do?” John asked, glancing back and forth between the door Sherlock had stomped through in a strop and Lestrade.

“Leave him. No. I’ll go if and when he calls me. He’ll call. No. I’m done with him. Fuck, John my head’s a wrecked thing. I haven’t slept in days.”

“Come over. We’ll have BG sleep in the playpen and you can be near him. It will help.”

“I don’t think I can see a kid right now.” Lestrade replied, voice cracking like it had been doing so often lately.

“I understand.” John replied, squeezing his arm a bit.

Lestrade buried the part of him that wanted to scream at John that he _didn’t_ understand, because he had a healthy son and another cub on the way. Instead he smiled weakly up at the man and thanked him. Once John left he went back up to the nursery where he’d been spending most of his time and pulled out his service revolver. He spent some time cleaning it and then pressed it into his mouth for an hour or two while staring at a picture of a teddy bear picnic on the wall.

If he and John were right than Mycroft had probably already killed their child since that flight to Venezuela had landed before anyone caught on.

If Sherlock was right than his child and bondmate were in danger and he was just sitting here sucking off his gun.

Lestrade lowered the weapon and went into Mycroft’s room for the first time in nearly a week. He began searching the room, looking for anything Mycroft may have left behind that would indicate which theory was correct. MI5 agreed with his and John’s theory, but Sherlock had his undivided devotion in all things related to deduction. Sherlock had searched this room and hadn’t found anything, but Lestrade was more involved with Mycroft than Sherlock was. He was certain he would find something, anything that would shed some light on this fucking tragedy.

Inside Mycroft’s pillow, wrapped gently in tissue paper with a bit of cardboard to keep it from folding, was an ultrasound picture. It was marked with the date it was taken and the weeks old their child had been when it had been taken a month ago. The little white bean with nubby arms and legs looked nothing like a child, but the wiggly lines above the picture indicated there had been a heartbeat. 11 weeks old, the caption read. That would make his child 15 weeks old, if he or she were still alive.

That settled it for Lestrade. Mycroft wouldn’t keep this picture safe like this if he were indecisive about keeping their child. Until he had been proven wrong, he was going to assume they were both alive, and he was going to get them back. No matter who he had to kill to do it.

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/74359.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 10

*See Chapter 20 in “Perfect Match” for Sherlock’s clue finding. No Johnlock sex in that chapter. See MollyVerse for explanation on Molly & Harry along with their version of events (it’s a very short wordcount and has no sex).

Lestrade stared at the grainy airport footage, his face grim and his stomach sour as Molly and Harry tugged on the handcart containing a gigantic crate. It looked rather solid, and Lestrade couldn’t see a way for Mycroft to have breathed while interned, but he couldn’t lose hope now. A romantic part of him was convinced that he would _feel_ it if Mycroft and/or the baby died. They were connected; bound by the chemicals of a bondmateship between an Alpha and Omega, the baby of his own blood, surely he would know?

As he watched Harry staggered and nearly fell, Molly releasing the handcart to grab onto her. Lestrade and several others watching the footage sucked air through their teeth as the cart rolled back, but then a man came up and caught it. He gestured towards the cart and Molly quickly handed him money to assist them out the door.

“Can we get a close-up of his face?” Lestrade asked, and the fellow from IT started fiddling with the image as quickly as he could.

An image appeared on the screen, mostly just facial structure, and he ordered it uploaded to his phone. He called Sherlock, proud of how steady his voice remained as he described what he saw, and texted the picture to him.

“Sally, I’m going on a trip. You coming along?” Lestrade asked.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, Sir.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

SQUICK WARNING – don’t eat and read this next bit.

Mycroft breathed slowly and steadily into the scuba regulator that he held to his face. He’d had to pry it out of his mouth twice during the flight to be spectacularly sick, but his stomach was empty now and he had re-secured it for simplicity sake. His whole body ached from the tanks strapped to his back. While he’d been packed quite liberally in straw, it only did so much to alleviate the shifting inside of the crate. Now that straw was saturated with vomit and other bodily fluids and Mycroft despaired of ever feeling human again.

There was a water bottle somewhere nearby, he had been holding it at one point but it had gotten loose and become a source of bruises during takeoff. Now he was parched, but feeling too ill to drink anything, and worried about the baby’s amniotic fluid levels if he didn’t locate the bottle and get something into him fast. Especially now the crate was becoming unbearably hot. Soon it felt as though the air from the tanks on his back were supplying him with nothing as the crate turned into a sweltering oven. He tried to remove his clothes, but to no avail, there simply wasn’t enough room to move and the sticky straw clung to him cloyingly; he gagged and wretched, but there was nothing to come back up. He found the water bottle, but it had broken open and he sobbed at the futility of it all.

In the midst of his desolation he felt it, the tiniest flutter from deep inside his belly. Mycroft stilled his writhing and focused on that single point of hope and joy. It happened again; a gentle stirring movement that felt more like a butterfly attempting to take off from its flower perch within his womb. All fear and anger was pushed aside as Mycroft felt those first signs of life. He would survive this; even if he had to strangle them both bare handed to make his escape. He would leave this furnace, burn those in his way alive, and soar back to Gregory on the wings of a phoenix if necessary. He would prevail.

Finally the crate stilled and muffled voices could be heard. Silence. More voices, then the ear piercing notes of the crate’s nails being pried out. While his captors gagged on the stench from within Mycroft scrambled up, struggling out of the scuba gear, and took large mouthfuls of clean- if humid- air.

“Fucking hell, go shower! Through there!” Harry pointed towards a door, and Mycroft clamored to get out of the crate. He would have attacked them, but Molly stood to one side with her arm over her nose and a gun trained on Mycroft’s figure.

He left his soiled clothes on the floor, they weren’t his anyway, and showered twice over in chilled water before he felt human again. He staggered out and asked them for bottled water, uncaring of his nudity.

“It may not be safe to drink the tap water,” He explained. Harry looked at him as though he was an idiot, but Molly fetched him a few bottles, which he greedily gulped down.

Finally he sank into a chair and looked around what appeared to be a small bedsit with two beds arranged on either side of the room. A small air conditioner in one window was struggling to make the room livable; the other window looked out on a mess of trees and bushes. There had been only one small window in the bathroom, and it had been too tiny for Mycroft to get through.

“What now, ladies?” Mycroft asked, his voice resigned.

“Now you start playing your part, rich boy,” Harry sneered. Molly stood up and handed him a suit to wear, roughly in his size. He glared at it, because it was of inferior quality and his captors likely thought it fancy, but put it on regardless.

“My part would be?” Mycroft asked. He was content to go along with murder should it get himself and his unborn baby out alive.

_What will we name it_? Mycroft’s tired mind wandered, _Gregory Junior? No, that name’s been snatched up by my infernal brother. Not Mycroft Junior, no… Perhaps Anthony? Or Antoinette? Gregory has French heritage somewhere; Antoinette would be acceptable for a girl._

“You’ll be the moneybags, of course.” Harry interrupted his woolgathering, “You see, it’s all over the news that you stole some money from your government and ran for it, and these men we’re staying with are only interested in money, so…” Harry stood up and walked over to Mycroft then, and handed him some bolívares in high denominations, “You’re going to be our patron saint; here to save us from the evils of drug use, heal our bodies, and free our souls from corruption. Once you persuade these lovely people that the money is here and will continue to flow we’ll each get our surgery, separately of course, so one can keep an eye on you, and then you’ll be released once we’re all healed up and on our way. They know you’re here, though they think it’s willingly and that we snuck you here because of your government. Keep it that way and you and your little brat can live.”

“A simple undertaking, I assume we begin immediately?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you an umbrella?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade spotted John before he saw Sherlock, which was unusual since Sherlock was taller, but it seemed the man was on his knees bribing local children for information. John was hovering like a nervous Beta nanny and it gave Lestrade pause to smile. As soon as he had Mycroft back he’d be the one hovering and smothering the aristocrat until he was annoyed as hell.

Just as he was thinking this Sherlock stood up, managed to step on the flustered Alpha’s toes, and snarled at him irritably for being in his way.

“Marital bliss, boys?” Lestrade asked, forcing a grin into place, but he knew it was piss poor when John winced at the sight of it. “We’ve just let the local boys loose on the airport armed with that grainy fucking picture. Hopefully the fellow we saw helping them with their luggage was a regular porter.”

“The children say he was, but they haven’t seen him since. We may be looking for a body,” Sherlock stated frankly.

Lestrade felt a bit sick at that, and John sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Bit not good?” Sherlock asked John, clearly not sure where he’d caused distress.

“Bit not good, yeah, you want to lay off the mentioning of bodies for a bit?”

“But if we’re looking for one…” Sherlock started at a painful decibel.

“Fine! It’s fine!” Lestrade cut in, “Honestly, if you two tiptoe around me we’ll never get anything done. So. Possible dead porter of grainy physique. We’ll look in on it. Anyone who can give us a better picture? Or even a sketch?”

Sherlock took off with John hot on his tail and Lestrade tried not to sway as his empty stomach, tired brain, and jetlag promised to floor him on the spot. Soon. They would find Mycroft soon, and he would be fine.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft made fast friends with the surgical team and their accompanying organ smugglers, a mess of Omegas and Betas without an Alpha to be seen. They were political rioters as well as organ thieves, and compared their work to Robin Hood as they stole organs and sold them to those the government had decreed not worthy of transplant. Unlike Molly and Harry, who were off the list due to the drug use that had killed their organs in the first place, most of those who didn’t make the transplant list were Beta’s. Beta’s were considered the least important gender, bordering on unworthy of existence, especially in the eyes of less wealthy countries. This was something that had bothered Mycroft about his own government as well, but change was slow in coming. He quickly latched onto their beliefs and extolled his fervent desire to right the societal wrongs while dolling out money whenever someone so much as handed him a tissue to blot his forehead with.

The Beta’s doted on him, bringing him a pillow for his back so he was more comfortable in his folding chair, and hurrying to supply him with food, drink, and even a radio so he could listen to music. He turned it to the news immediately, but pretended not to listen as he chatted his temporary compatriots up. He had no illusion that his words and actions were unmonitored, as both Molly and Harry were watching him carefully with eyes that spoke of fluency for the native dialect he was speaking. It seems their organs had just arrived, but there was some argument as to who should go first; each wanting the other to have their fresh kidney and liver immediately.

Finally Mycroft broke in with the suggestion that Harry go first, because she looked the worse for wear. The Beta’s jumped on this and the Omega’s agreed she did look far worse and said they’d do a blood test on them both first. An hour after the blood test and they practically rushed Harry to surgery. Molly stood by Mycroft, her weapon hidden in the folds of her loose pants, and tried not to cry.

Mycroft had been watching the women carefully since he’d arrived, and had come to realize something rather shocking; they were a Perfect Match. All his life he had been taught that homosexuality was wrong because it meant you 1) couldn’t breed and 2) couldn’t find your Perfect Match. Well, here he was faced with the obvious unraveling of that belief. True, Molly and Harry couldn’t breed together, but both were still viable for reproduction outside of their union, and their Match could not be denied no matter how much Mycroft didn’t want to see it. They were completely in sync with each other, moving fluidly and finishing each other’s sentences. Harry brought out Molly’s hidden tenacity and Molly brought out a brilliant mind from the depths of Harry’s drug addled stupor. They completed each other.

It made it all the more painful to him that he was going to have to kill them, since he saw now why they were so desperate. Each was fighting for her _lover’s_ survival, not her own, and wouldn’t he move heaven and earth for Gregory? He carefully peered up at Molly’s neck and noted the bondmark on her neck, a quick sniff revealed a successful bond with Harry. They were as married as he and Gregory were, and just as deeply in love. The utter fools.

Mycroft had gotten a bit of sleep after Harry went in to surgery. He was doing his best to keep himself healthy, eating a great deal of healthy foods and drinking plenty of water to combat the heat and humidity. He woke when the radio the Beta’s had provided suddenly cut off the music and started a service bulletin.

“Oh, dear,” Molly squeaked, “I knew we should have killed that porter. I thought I should have told Harry, but she seemed so weak and I’ve never killed anyone before…”

Mycroft met Molly’s eyes and she blushed and looked away. The radio repeated the description of the porter who was apparently part of his capture. Perhaps he’d helped them move the crate he’d been secured in?

“How much does he know?” Mycroft asked, keeping his voice consoling.

Molly sighed, and gave him an: ‘I know what you’re trying to do’ look. Mycroft merely smiled and waited her out.

“He doesn’t know where we are. He loaded us into the vehicle that these fellows own, so he could probably describe it and the people involved,” Molly said with a nervous flutter.

“That’s unfortunate for you,” Mycroft agreed.

“Yes, it is.”

It seems not all was at a loss, however, as Harry emerged from surgery with a wan smile and more color in her face. Molly sat by her side, tearful and content, and they discussed when Molly’s surgery would take place. Harry wanted to be up and around beforehand, to keep an eye on Mycroft, but she also didn’t want Molly waiting until she became too ill to survive the surgery.

“I’m much better off than you were, love. I’ll be fine! Really! I barely feel ill at all,” Molly insisted.

“Molly, dear, I doubt that’s true,” Mycroft cut in, “and even if it weren’t don’t you think you ought to inform Harry about the porter?”

“What porter?” Harry asked in concern.

“Oh, dear. I didn’t want to trouble you,” Molly startled, “The police are looking for the porter who moved Mycroft’s crate. There’s a description of him playing hourly on the radio.”

“Shit!” Harry snapped, looking frantic and trying to sit up.

“No, don’t!” Molly urged her back.

“The most intelligent thing you both can do,” Mycroft insisted, “Is get Molly through surgery. If all goes well she will be able to survive even if you both are incarcerated. I am prepared to testify that you are Perfect Matches, which will at least stop you from being separated even if I doubt what little remaining power I have could keep you from jail.”

Molly and Harry froze, eyes sliding to look at each other sideways.

“How do you know about us being Perfect Matches?” Harry asked, her voice muted and wonder on her face.

“Gregory and I are Perfect Matches,” Mycroft replied, allowing his face to soften as he thought of his Alpha Dom, “The only thing keeping me healthy without him this long is the baby, my body fights for its survival above all else, even the breaking of my heart. I can see it in the very way you two _breathe_ around each other. Any Perfect Match couple could see it for what it is. I would do anything for Gregory and our child, I can hardly fault you for this.”

“Get the surgery. I’ll watch him,” Harry said softly.

“Please, Harry, we can’t trust…!” Molly started, but Harry cut her off.

“Do it, Molls! Please! He’s right, I won’t live without you! I wouldn’t want to!” Harry pleaded.

Molly started crying again, tugging helplessly at Harry’s hospital garb, “John calls him the Iceman.”

“So?”

“So, he’s _playing_ us!”

“He’s pack, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Look what we’ve done to him! We’re pack, too!”

“It will be fine. Give me the gun. He’ll stay in here with me, use the loo, and that’s it. The Beta’s will bring us stuff. He won’t do anything. I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

Molly sniffled miserably, but handed over the gun without further argument before leaving to tell the Omega and Beta surgery team that she was ready for her new organs. Harry regarded him coldly.

“I don’t buy you going docile on me for an instant.”

“Your relationship could very well change the face of our governments treatment of homosexuals, do you realize that?” Mycroft explained, eyes cold and calculating once more.

“Are you saying you’ve got political reasons to keep us alive?” Harry asked, eyebrow raised in consideration.

“Yes.”

“I almost buy that, but no dice. One wrong move and I’ll put a whole through your gut and we’ll find out if that baby really is keeping you alive.”

Mycroft felt sick as he wrapped his arms protectively around his abdomen. His plans to escape flew out the window. He was frozen to the spot with solid fear. Four hours of surgery for Molly. Perhaps they would let him go afterwards. He didn’t plan to hold his breath, but he was quickly running out of options. The Beta’s were his only hope now that manipulating the women had evidently failed. If he could get them to help him escape he’d be home free, but until then he was just as trapped as Harry was with the tubes running into her arms and the police hot on her trail. If the police got there too soon he’d be shot by her. If they came too late he’d be gone to wherever they intended to leave him, whether that place was safe or not. If Molly died in surgery he would die where he sat, of that he was sure. If Gregory died from their bond being strained this long he would wish he had.

“One request?” Mycroft asked after a few hours of silence.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“If the child survives and I do not, if you are still in my company then, will you take care of it?”

Harry seemed to think for a time, “You don’t want your brother to raise it?”

“I think he will have quite the full house already. I want you two to have him or her.”

“Yeah. Sure. Molls would like that.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, hoping he had reached the Omega in Harriet Watson, but doubting by the steady arm that held a gun pointed at him, that he had managed that seemingly impossible task.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/74567.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 11

Lestrade woke with Sherlock and Sally wrapped tightly around him on either side of him and no recollection of how he’d gotten in that position. From the fuzziness in his mouth he assumed he’d been slipped a Mickey. It took him a moment to remember where he was and wonder why he had a hollow ache inside of him, but when he did he cried out and buried his face against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock jolted awake and so did Sally, who jumped into Alpha guard mode and snarled at the room before realizing it was only Lestrade weeping.

“No word since you went to sleep,” John said immediately from the chair he’d been sitting in to guard over them during their furpile.

“You had no right!” Lestrade sobbed futilely.

“We had no _choice_. You needed sleep,” John replied soothingly.

“You had no **right!”** Lestrade hadn’t meant to Dom John, but it happened anyway and he hit the ground with a cry, not just falling to kneel, but also dropping all the way to _saikeirei._

_ Sherlock snarled in outrage and had Lestrade pinned in an instant.  _

_ “ **Release him!** ” Sherlock snarled, which was a ridiculous demand since he could just as easily let John up, but Lestrade knew he’d been in the wrong. _

_ “John, you can stand. I’m sorry.” Lestrade called out.  _

_ John got shakily to his feet, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and Lestrade remembered the hell the man had been put through- that he had been partially responsible for- just over a year ago. _

_ “Shit,” Lestrade squirmed out from under Sherlock’s loosened grasp and crawled towards John, not hesitating to prostrate himself, “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean it.”  _

_ John looked down at him in surprise, then smiled and dropped down as well. They pressed close, John offering his neck and Lestrade sucking it gently. They were both hard from the sheer stress of the situation and rubbed against each other gently – seeking comfort rather than domination as their Alpha bodies tried to instinctively protect each other. _

_ Lestrade’s phone went off and everyone bolted for it at once, Sally and John knocking heads comically. _

_ Lestrade’s stomach plummeted as he read the message.  _

_ To: Lestrade  
APB found similar vehicles outside of known activists compound. Blood scented at scene is Omega. No deaths confirmed. Will infiltrate building by 1400 once team is prepped to deal with potential hostage situation. _

_ Lestrade paraphrased it; unable to mention that it was specifically  _ _ Omega _ _ blood they’d smelled at the scene.  _

_ He bolted out the door with the other’s hot on his tail and didn’t realize he’d left his shoes behind until Sally stuffed them into his hand as they piled into the rental car. He didn’t even argue her being in the driver’s seat. Now was not the time for him to be behind a wheel. He read off the address and plugged it into the GPS as she started driving.  _

_ Hold on, my love, my baby. I’m coming. _

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry’s eyes were drooping. She was struggling to keep herself clear of the fog of painkillers, dehydration, and shock that occurred after a major surgery. Her body had been weak beforehand, only a miracle could keep her awake now, and Mycroft was certain that she wasn’t owed one. Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall in order to facilitate her own drop into slumber, but they were both jolted to alertness by a Beta nurse hurrying in.

Now was his chance.

“My dear?” Mycroft called out, holding out a few folded bolívares with a note tucked inside. It was the third such note he had attempted, but so far he had been either ignored or the notes had gone unnoticed.

“Yes, Sir?” The Beta woman stepped forward helpfully, and Mycroft pressed the note and money into her hands.

“Would you be so kind as to bring me something salty to eat? I do so have cravings at this delicate time.”

“Of course! Bread? Vegetable? Meat?”

“Bread and butter, I think, would do nicely.”

The woman smiled and let herself back out after checking on Harry’s drips. He watched as the Omega woman calmly shut off the painkillers.

“That’s going to be quite awful for you.” Mycroft suggested.

“I’ll live. It will help me stay awake long enough to make sure this all plays out right.”

The Beta nurse toddled in with some bread and butter and Mycroft nibbled on it, annoyed that he’d been ignored once more. Perhaps the Beta’s were illiterate? Illiterate nurses? That didn’t make sense.

Mycroft turned to study Harry again, and watched her fight sleep with a desperation bordering on manic.

“I need to use the loo,” Mycroft informed, hoping with him out of sight she would drop off.

Harry nodded and Mycroft stood and stepped into the small bathroom. This one was on an inner wall and had no windows at all. He stood at the mirror, studying his face for a bit and taking in the stress markings under his eyes, before turning to the side and pulling up his shirt. He gasped at what he saw there. A small hard bump, which he had felt but hadn’t realized was visible already. He ran his hand across it and felt another flutter of life. His hormones must have been getting the better of him, because he sank to the floor in despair and wept.

Mycroft wasn’t sure how long he knelt there in misery, it felt like hours but it might have only been minutes. He finally recalled his reason for being there, however, and crept to the door on hands and knees to peer out. There was no keyhole, no cracks, and no way to view the outside without opening it. Feeling a pit of dread in his belly begin to unfurl into nausea, he steeled himself and turned the knob as silently as he could. Once that was done he stilled, took a deep breath, and gently pulled the door open the tiniest crack.

From his position on the floor he could just barely see that Harry’s eyes were closed and her mouth slack. Mycroft took a deep breath, ready to slip out the door, when the Beta nurse arrived again.

“Mrs. Watson? Mrs. Watson!” The woman called, but her remaining message went undelivered.

Harry shook awake and glanced about herself for a moment, before letting out a high, keening, wail; Mycroft’s blood froze in his veins at the horrible sound and he felt every muscle in his body clench. He was completely unable to move, his body stuck in ‘play dead’ mode that Submissive’s employed to stay alive when their Alpha’s were not present. He couldn’t even draw breath as Harry threw herself out of the bed, pulling out wires and tubes, and setting the machines off.

“WHAT HAPPENED?! WHY?! WHHHHYYY?!”

Harry screamed, her throat cracking and raspy in her grief. She was pulling at her hair as if she would yank it from the roots, her body doubled over in pain that had nothing to do with her surgery. Mycroft knew before the Beta spoke and his heart ached in sympathy as he finally managed to draw a stuttering breath.

“There was nothing we could do,” The Beta nurse tried to console her, but Mycroft knew it was pointless, “She died very peacefully while under anesthesia…”

Harry shot her and Mycroft’s pity fled out the window with the last of his nerves. He was once more frozen, and it was a good thing since if he’d been an Alpha in ‘fight or flight’ mode he’d have been shot when Harry fired two bullets through the bathroom door directly above his head. She took off like a shot then, screaming in agony and trailing blood from her ruptured stitches. The gun rang out over and again and he counted the bullets, but after the requisite amount the woman must have reloaded because the shooting continued.

Mycroft huddled in the bathroom for what felt like hours, trembling on his knees and wishing he could manage to move. His bladder and fear of a UTI harming his baby was what urged him on finally, and he crawled to the toilet to piss sitting down for fear of standing too high. When he crept back to his spot he realized it had been silent for quite some time and steeled himself to emerge.

Mycroft crawled out of the hospital room and into the main sitting area of the compound. There were bodies everywhere; a few with guns that a sniff revealed had never been fired. Most Betas simply couldn’t shoot an Omega, no matter how mad she clearly was. Mycroft was halfway to the door and escape when he heard sobbing from the surgery. He almost left. Almost, but his damnable curiosity was peaked and he crawled slowly towards the room, pushing the door further open to pear inside.

Harry Watson-Hooper was draped across her bondmate’s body, which was in a horrid state of mid-surgery. Molly’s eyes, when Mycroft stood, were closed and her face appeared serene. Not so for Harry, who lifted her head and screamed at the ceiling in agony. She pressed the gun to her head and pulled the trigger repeatedly, but she had used all the bullets on the medical team around her.

Mycroft approached her slowly, pack instinct pulling him to reassure the woman before him. He had a mad urge to find pillows and blankets, wrap her up, and comfort her, but his mind won out in the end. Well… it mostly won out. Instead of attempting to console her Mycroft searched the nearby cabinet, glancing back at her and keeping an ear open in case she moved. He came up easily with a toxic dose of drugs and filled the nearest syringe.

“Let me help,” He breathed, stepping close to the weeping woman, “I can ease your passing.”

Harry raised her swollen eyes, the life already drained from them with the death of her Perfect Match. She glanced at the needle in his hand and wordlessly held out her arm.

“I’ll see you’re taken back to England and buried side by side,” He promised her.

She nodded, a small, grateful smile appearing. For just a moment he saw her, as he had once known her, if only for the days they’d held his weeping brother during Sherlock’s furpile. A pretty young woman with blonde hair and dancing blue eyes that seemed to continually laugh. She was the perfect counterpoint to John who always seemed so serious. They had spoken together in the darkness while Sherlock slept. She had told him her dreams and her own bitter hatred of her sexuality. He had mocked her for wanting to be a singer, because her voice was terrible. He couldn’t seem to regret that now. He couldn’t even regret what he was about to do, because in the end it was a mercy. She already felt the loss of her Perfect Match; there would be no peaceful death in her sleep.

“This will hurt,” Mycroft cautioned.

“It had better.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade stared down at the corpses that littered the room, and more specifically at Molly and Harry; entwined together in what appeared to be sleep, with a sheet gently tucked in around their bodies and a pillow beneath their heads. He could see where someone had tucked Harry’s hair behind her ear and closed the gown over Molly’s mutilated body. Harry’s lips were touching Molly’s cheek, but they were clearly posed after death since the vomit flecks around Harry’s mouth spoke of someone who had died aspirating on their own sick. It wouldn’t have been gentle and she wouldn’t have settled so delicately without getting a drop of vomit on Molly. Harry’s mouth even appeared to have been somewhat cleaned up.

“Mycroft’s handkerchief,” Sherlock stated, holding up a vomit covered white silk square with MLH embroidered on it.

He felt a pang of longing. He hadn’t realized that Mycroft had incorporated his last name as part of his monogram.

Sherlock zipped off in search of clues and Lestrade noted John examining the bodies in the next room- carefully not looking into the room with Harry’s body- turning out their pockets and calling someone over a few times. He headed over to see what he had located only to find notes in Mycroft’s handwriting, in Spanish, folded amongst money.

“Sherlock read one and says they’re from Mycroft saying he’s being held hostage and asking for help. They’re all identical as far as I can tell, but Sherlock’s more interested in some tracks outside.”

“You guys think he got away?”

“He’s not here, so it seems like.”

Lestrade looked aside at a gigantic freezer that one of the boys was prying a lock off of and stiffened in terror. John stood and gripped his arm tightly, giving him a subtle shake. The lock came off and the men peered inside and chattered in Spanish.

“Organs, Greg,” John’s voice finally penetrated Lestrade’s ringing ears, “Remember? They were selling organs. He won’t be in there. He just won’t.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course not. He’d never stand for it.”

“Not the Mycroft I know.”

Sherlock darted back in, looking a mixture of frustrated and relieved with Sally hot on his tail.

“The Freaks found something,” Sally chirped.

“Stop calling him that!” John snapped.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked, hurrying across the room and nearly slipping in a slick spot.

“One of the vehicles is missing,” Sherlock rattled off, “There’s oil where it sat regularly and bloody tracks belonging to a man Mycroft’s height, weight, and stride headed to where it was parked. There’s also a shotgun missing from that gun cabinet over there along with a case of bullets. Top that off with supplies taken from the refrigerator two doors down. He’s made a run for it; uninjured as far as I can tell from his gait.”

Lestrade gave a whoop of delight and headed out the door towards his car, shouting over his shoulder.

“Find me that truck, Sherlock!”

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/74923.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 12

Mycroft had driven slowly away from the compound, Molly’s diary on the seat safely tucked beneath his thigh. He had never driven before and the multitude of gears was overwhelming him. He started up a dense incline only to stall out, shift the thing into three different gears all with less results, check the fuel gage, pump the three pedals intermittently, panic a bit when he started to roll backwards, and throw the monstrosity in park before slamming on the e-brake.

Mycroft sat in the broken down hunk of junk looking around what appeared to be a rain forest. It was getting dark and he was loath to leave the safety of the truck, but he had no idea what waiting in it would bring. He had food and water, enough for several days, but that also made things difficult since he couldn’t possibly lug it with him. He hadn’t even gotten far because, between the shifting and the bumps he hadn’t been driving fast.

Mycroft sat back a bit, stroking his small baby bump and hoping his tiny passenger was safe. He didn’t know what he’d do if the jarring drive had detached the placenta from the wall. Deciding he was stuck for now, at least until dawn, he pulled out the mobiles he had stolen and started checking each for a signal. The third must have been a quality brand because it showed two bars.

Two rings. Three. Four.

“Lestrade.”

Mycroft’s throat closed. He literally couldn’t speak. He could hear everything through the phone; his sorrow, his fear, his longing, and even a small bit of hope. Mycroft opened his mouth and couldn’t even breathe out.

“Hello? Anyone there? Damn reception…”

The phone cut out and Mycroft sobbed before punching in the number, getting it wrong, punching it in again, and finally getting it right on the fourth try.

“Lestrade.”

“I…”

“Oh my god.”

Mycroft took a deep shuddering breath, but found himself without a word to say. His throat was closing up on him and he was crying again. What a fool he must look, sitting in a gigantic truck in the middle of a rainforest, crying soundlessly into a dead beta’s mobile.

“Where are you? _How_ are you?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft only got out a sob and leaned his head back against the seat in defeat. He was about to hang up, deciding he was going to upset him more, when Gregory spoke again.

“Talk to me, you bastard.” Gregory growled, “And know if you’ve hurt my Omega I will kill you. Slowly.”

Mycroft laughed weakly, “That’s so sweet, Gregory.”

“My.” Gregory moaned his name, his voice filled with agony.

“I’m lost. Alone, and lost,” Mycroft explained.

“I’ve been lost, too,” Gregory said with a sigh.

“Yes, but unlike you I don’t mean metaphorically.” Mycroft replied, letting some bite into his voice in the hopes it would restore them both.

“Neither do I. A storm is rolling in and the fucking GPS lost its signal. Sherlock says if we don’t find wherever you’ve driven off to before the storm hits we won’t find the trail at all. There are about a million roads out here and 90% of them are dead ends.”

“I’m aware. It was probably my own backtracking that threw you off. I can relate each turn I made to you, the accurate ones, as opposed to the false starts.”

Gregory relayed that back and then the phone was switched to speaker. Mycroft began relating his journey to them, Sherlock commenting on occasion to let Sally know where they were in relation to Mycroft as he apparently knew the way back to the trail they’d lost. He listened as they grumbled about another dead end and Sherlock said they were turning back again.

They still hadn’t hit the right road by the time the signal cut out. Mycroft stared at the phone hopelessly, realizing that they didn’t have nearly enough information to reach him, and checked the phones battery life. It wasn’t full, but not dead yet, either. He checked the vehicle for a charger but found none. He might have been able to rig it, but he didn’t have the right supplies. He thought about purposely damaging the engine so that the smoke would be visible, but he decided that plan was better left for when the storm had passed.

Mycroft stretched out, grateful for the old style bench seats, and wrapped himself up in the blankets he’d brought along. One pillow rested under his head and the other he clutched tightly to his abdomen. Soon. He’d be with his Alpha again soon.

XXXXXXX

Mycroft awoke when the storm hit, but soon drifted off again despite the loud thunder and brilliant flashes of light. He was simply too tired and this was the safest he’d felt in a week. However, there was no sleeping through the violent lurch of the truck slipping off the road and into the bramble. The wind had apparently picked up and trees were falling around him. Mycroft crawled beneath the truck’s dash on the passenger side, screaming in terror as a tree dropped across the flatbed and shattered the rear window. Now he was wet, cold, terrified, and covered in glass. He tugged Molly’s book off the floor and tucked it under his shirt. It pressed against his skin like a reminder of his lost pack, and he screamed in frustration. Another tree hit the truck, this time in the engine area and his entire body was jolted forward from the impact.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around his stomach and buried his face against his knees. The storm raged and the small man below it trembled. This wasn’t a storm, it was a hurricane, and Mycroft feared it would be the end of him. Finally, just when he was beginning to wish a tree would just fall and end it for him once and for all, the winds simply dropped out. Mycroft lay there trembling, wanting to crawl out and yet fearful of movement, for what felt like hours.

His body was too cramped to remain that way for long, so he finally pulled himself free. He cut his hand on a few shards of glass, but it was shallow and he had no more energy left to worry about infection and parasites. He couldn’t open either of the doors so he kicked at one of the windows until he could crawl out. His mistake was crawling out feet first without looking first; he immediately dropped a good ten meters and landed hard on his left ankle. Mycroft lay in the thick mud, injured, alone, and utterly emotionally wrecked. Around him there was nothing but post-storm stillness and he sobbed and wailed his agony into the dark around him.

Eventually the bugs found him, so he smeared the mud across his head and neck to keep them off, then animals began to appear. First a snake crawled out of seemingly nowhere, a good three feet long and utterly terrifying. It slithered directly over his shoulder, apparently drawn by the heat, but a frog hopping nearby interested it more and it slithered away before Mycroft could do something stupid like bat at it. Next he heard something large moving through the forest, snapping branches and making deep grunting noises. He decided it was some kind of herd beast, because it was too loud to be a predator and he was too tired to hope it was someone he knew.

A groaning noise alerted Mycroft to the next danger in this long chain of misery. The truck above him was sliding down the very embankment he was sprawled beneath. It would crush him if he remained. Mycroft stared up at it, wondering at the absurdity of so very much going wrong at once, and had just decided to sit there and wait for his cartoon-like death, when a flutter drew his attention downward.

_Gregory’s baby._

Mycroft floundered in the waist high muck he had sunk into, leaving his pocket of hell with a loud slurp and a pained cry as his sprained ankle protested it’s use in his escape. The truck groaned and fell a good two meters before getting caught on a couple of small trees. Mycroft managed to crawl his way through the mud, crying out futilely whenever he came in contact with some squirming thing, and finally managed to grab onto a low hanging thick branch. Behind him the truck came crashing down, but Mycroft didn’t even look back. He tugged himself up into the tree branch with the last of his energy and leaned against the trunk. He was asleep in seconds.

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/75050.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Give and Take Ch 13

Mycroft had to be dreaming; because there was no way he was hearing Gregory call his name. Not after the cold, empty abyss he’d been suffering through. He had awakened what felt like hours ago from a dreamless, hopeless sleep, but didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes; he merely stayed as he was with his cramped arms gripping the tree as they had even when he’d been unconscious.

“My! _My_!” Gregory’s voice sounded so utterly beautiful, even while tortured by fear and loss.

“Sir, please! You don’t wanna look! Just stay back until we can get someone here…” Sally’s voice shouted.

What would Sally Donovan be doing in his dreams? Mycroft’s eyes refused to open, but a cursory rub revealed it was because mud had washed over them in the night; it must have rained. He scrubbed at his face a bit until he could look blearily down at the scene before him.

Gregory was wallowing through the mud Mycroft had landed in last night and trying to get into the truck that was still lying with it’s nose buried in said mud. Sally Donovan was holding him back, face twisted in sorrow, probably convinced he was dead inside.

“He’s not dead! I’d know if he was dead! LET ME GO DONOVAN! **LET ME GO!!** ”

Unable to combat her pack Alpha’s Dom Voice, Donovan released him with an anguished cry. He surged forward and Mycroft’s mind kicked in again, realizing that truck could easily tip to the side and harm his Alpha.

“Gregory!” He called out, giving up on keeping himself perfectly uninjured he simply let himself topple from the branch and land on the semi-hard ground below on his hands and knees with a jarring pain that brought white spots to his eyes. He started struggling forward, his ankle aching only marginally more than the rest of his body.

“My!”

Gregory had abandoned the truck and was struggling his way towards Mycroft through the drying mud. A few snakes and frogs fled before him and Mycroft froze in fear that yet _another_ thing would go wrong and one of them would be poisoned. The creatures, however, seemed more interested in getting _away_ from them.

Then Gregory’s arms were around him, his scent in his nose, and Mycroft sobbed unashamedly into his filthy shirt. Donovan was there, kneeling in the mud and checking them both over even while Mycroft did the same to them. They were both covered in scrapes and Donovan had a horrid looking bruise blooming on the side of her face.

“Sprained ankle,” Mycroft informed through his gasping sobs.

“I’ll carry you, love,” Gregory whispered, holding him tightly and rocking back and forth on the cold, wet ground.

“Not up that embankment, you won’t,” Sally sighed, “I’ve called for help, we’re just waiting for it to arrive. They’re using my mobile to locate us.”

“The tree is as safe as we’ll get,” Mycroft pointed.

Sally heaved herself up first then helped Mycroft up, Gregory lifting him from below by his hips. Once Gregory was in the tree as well Mycroft found himself in an Alpha sandwich, each of them petting and holding him, heedless of his filthy state. He pressed his face into Sally’s soft bussom and enjoyed the feel of his own Alpha pressed against his side and stroking his abdomen through his clothes.

“I will require at least _three_ baths once we are back in civilization,” Mycroft informed.

“You’ll have to share. You aren’t leaving my sight until I get you home. Maybe not then, either,” Gregory replied, nuzzling his neck.

“I am quite certain I can live with that,” Mycroft intoned, pressing a muddy kiss to Gregory’s cheek.

An hour or so later they heard the sound of engines and a helicopter flew overhead, hovering momentarily before turning away. Shortly after, a truck with monstrous wheels pulled up just behind the fallen trees where Mycroft’s vehicle had been. Two men jumped out intending on using small chainsaws on the trees blocking their path while a third started pulling the chain to a winch from out of the truck’s front end, but Gregory hailed them and they quickly switched into rescue mode.

Mycroft was taken to a hospital where he was thankfully washed, hydrated, examined, stabbed full of needles (after being assured they weren’t going to harm his child) and pressed into a comfortable bed to be monitored. Two bands around his abdomen pressed sensors to his bump and loudly played the sound of Gregory’s baby’s heartbeat into the room. He leaned back against the pillows and cried softly, his Alpha’s hands gently running through his hair, across the parts of his bump that weren’t covered by the bands, and up and down his arms. Whispers of love filled his ears and he relaxed into peaceful slumber.  
  
Fin.  
  


This story is continued in the stories [Perfect Match Fic](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/44729.html) and [Rupert Lestrade-Holmes](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/45561.html).

  
 


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